Kennedy 04 - The Broken Circle

by Shirley Wells

  Not for the first time, Jill wondered how lowlife like McQueen got away with such acts for so long. How did they keep their victims quiet? The answer, she supposed, was sitting opposite her. Fear. McQueen terrified people into silence.

  But outwardly, McQueen had been a pillar of respectability. He had even made friends with the Chief Constable no less.

  ‘What did you do,’ she asked Claire, ‘when you realized he was getting to Daisy?’

  ‘I didn’t say he was,’ Claire pointed out.

  ‘OK, so what would you have done if he had?’

  Claire smiled at that, but didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m tired now,’ she said instead.

  ‘Tough!’ Max snapped back at her.

  ‘You wanted to protect Daisy, didn’t you?’ Jill pressed on. ‘You wanted to shield her from heroin—or crack. You were determined that Daisy wouldn’t end up an addict, selling her body to feed a habit, like her mother. You wanted a better life for her, didn’t you?’

  Claire didn’t answer.

  ‘But how can you fight a man like McQueen?’ Jill went on. ‘You can’t, can you? Men like him, men with all that wealth, power and influence, consider themselves above the law, don’t they? They trample over everyone who gets in their way. They make threats, don’t they, Claire? And they don’t hesitate to carry out those threats, do they?’

  Claire, hands trembling violently, nodded.

  ‘How did he threaten you, Claire?’ Max demanded. ‘And don’t say he didn’t because we know damn well he did.’

  ‘How do I know he’s dead?’ she asked, her voice thin and rasping.

  ‘You can take my word for it,’ Max told her.

  ‘Mine too,’ Jill added.

  Jill could see that, finally, Claire was allowing herself to believe that McQueen could be dead.

  ‘He threatened to kill Daisy.’

  Max was about to speak, but Jill nudged his thigh to silence him.

  ‘He started paying me for sex,’ Claire said, her eyes dull. ‘He was just another punter, you see. Then he gave Daisy crack. How could he, eh? How could he do that? He came to the flat one day and I pulled a knife on him. I warned him that, if he went near Daisy again, I’d kill him. Fucking hell, me threatening McQueen. Later that night, someone—someone he’d sent—came to beat me up. He wanted Daisy, but she wasn’t there. He said he’d be back for her.’

  Claire, having given what was possibly the longest speech of her life, fell silent. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, hugging her fear to her.

  ‘So you walked into the nick clutching a pillow and an empty medicine bottle,’ Jill guessed.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Claire, where’s Daisy?’ she asked quietly.

  The weariness left her for a moment. ‘She’s dead. I killed her.’

  Never in a million years. Daisy was in hiding. But where? Somewhere near a canal? On a narrowboat?

  ‘The man McQueen sent to beat you up,’ Max said. ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Max persisted.

  ‘A brick shithouse.’

  ‘Big arms and shoulders? A massive, bullish head sitting on those shoulders? Look like an ex-boxer, did he?’

  Claire visibly started at what had to be an accurate description. ‘He might have.’

  When the interview was over, Jill had one more thing to say to Claire.

  ‘You remember you said you’d like to live on a narrowboat, Claire?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you do,’ Jill said pleasantly. ‘Well, that’s what I’m going to do. Not live on one, but look round a few. In fact, I’m going to look at every boat in the country if I have to.’

  She joined Max at the door.

  ‘See you again, Claire.’

  They were almost at the car when Max said, ‘OK, I give up. What the hell was that about narrowboats?’

  ‘Daisy’s living on one,’ Jill replied confidently.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘And, um, do you have any idea in which particular county this narrowboat might be?’

  ‘Well, no. Not yet. I intend to work on that.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  It was New Year’s Eve, and Jill and Grace were walking along sterile hospital corridors that stretched on seemingly for ever. Visitors wandered around looking lost and depressed. Doctors strode about as if they hadn’t yet mastered the art of being in the right place at the right time.

  ‘What are you doing tonight, Jill?’ Grace was totally unaffected by her surroundings.

  ‘I’m at the village hall in Kelton—a few drinks, fireworks. It’s a fundraising thing. You?’

  ‘Just a few friends round. We’ll let off some fireworks at midnight, but we’re both working tomorrow. Worse luck.’

  Grace hit a button for the lift. ‘Let’s see if this thing works,’ she grumbled. ‘The last time I used it, it refused to stop at level three. In the end, having sailed up and down half a dozen times, I had to get out at level four and walk.’

  Today, however, the lift deposited them at level three and they walked along yet more sterile corridors to Ward 33 where Tessa Bailey was in a side room.

  ‘You’ll find her very groggy still,’ the ward sister warned them. ‘And try not to tire her out. She’s been through a lot.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we won’t,’ Grace assured her.

  Tessa was as white as the pillows against which she reclined. Two different substances were being given intravenously and she clasped a mask, possibly for oxygen, in her hands.

  Several cards sat on her bedside locker and two balloons had been tied to her bed.

  ‘How are you feeling, Tessa?’ Jill asked her as soon as the introductions were out of the way.

  ‘Dog rough,’ she replied, but then she added a more considered, ‘I suppose I’m OK really, and it’s cheap board and lodging.’

  ‘Room service, too,’ Jill agreed. ‘It could be worse.’

  It could be much worse. Tessa was lucky to be alive.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What can you remember about the attack?’ Grace asked, keen to get down to business.

  ‘Nothing really.’

  ‘Try, Tessa,’ Grace urged her.

  ‘I left the flat and walked down the alley to go to the shop,’ she explained slowly. ‘I got almost to the end. In fact, I think I did get to the end. Then I don’t know what hit me. I just don’t know.’

  ‘Think carefully,’ Jill suggested. ‘I know it’s painful to remember that day, but we need all the help you can give us. What could you see?’

  ‘Nothing. It were dark. Well, almost dark.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I could see lights on in the Indian takeaway across the road from the alley. I don’t know if it were open or not, but I remember thinking I’d call in and see if they sold fags if the shop were closed.’

  ‘Good,’ Grace said. ‘Then what?’

  ‘I were cold,’ Tessa remembered. ‘Me teeth were chattering.’

  ‘What could you hear?’ Jill prompted.

  ‘Nothing. It were quiet. Eerily quiet, like you don’t often hear. There’s nothing and no one about on Christmas Day.’

  ‘What about the smell?’ Jill asked. ‘What could you smell?’

  ‘Fresh, cold air,’ she answered. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jill loved that smell, loved the way her cats smelled when they came inside from the frosty air.

  ‘Then there were summat else,’ Tessa said, frowning. ‘I could smell smoke. Pipe smoke or summat like that. It weren’t normal fag smoke, and it weren’t a joint. It were a pipe or a cigar, that sort of smell.’

  ‘You’re doing really well,’ Jill encouraged her.

  ‘Oh, yeah, there were summat nice. One of them expensive perfumes.’ She sighed. ‘But that’s it. I don’t remember nothing else. Here,’ she said suddenly, ‘you don’t think he were waitin
g for me, do you?’ The thought had clearly struck her for the first time and she looked terrified. ‘Were he waiting for me?’

  ‘We don’t know for sure,’ Grace told her. ‘It might have been a mugging or something, and he was disturbed. We think, though, that he was waiting for you, yes.’

  ‘It’s too much of a coincidence, Tessa,’ Jill explained. ‘First your boyfriend is murdered and we know he tried to pull a fast one on Thomas McQueen. Then McQueen’s shot.’

  ‘God Almighty!’

  Tessa really hadn’t connected the killings with the attempt on her own life. She had truly believed that she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Which meant she didn’t know who might want her dead.

  ‘We believe,’ Grace said, ‘that you know too much. At least, someone believes you do. Have you any idea who killed Muhammed?’

  ‘No.’ She was terrified.

  ‘What about Tom McQueen?’ Grace asked. ‘He’s killed and then, less than two weeks later, you’re attacked.’

  ‘God Almighty!’ she said again.

  She pulled the mask on to her face and breathed deeply for a few moments.

  ‘I always assumed McQueen killed Muhammed. Well, one of his thugs,’ she said, her breathing still laboured. ‘McQueen’s dead, though. It couldn’t have been him, could it?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ Jill said, adding a confident, ‘but we will find out.’

  ‘Your attacker,’ Grace said. ‘Did they make any sounds at all? Could you detect an accent? English? Asian? Local?’

  Tessa shook her head. ‘I didn’t hear nothing. One minute I were walking down the alley, the next I were lying here. God knows what happened in the days in between.’

  Nurses came to record Tessa’s vital signs and, after assuring Tessa she was safe, and that a policeman was stationed outside her door, Jill and Grace set off down those sterile corridors once more.

  ‘That was a big help,’ Grace said, frustration showing. ‘Who’s going to tell the boss we’re looking for a pipe-smoking transvestite? You or me?’

  ‘Toss you for it?’ Jill suggested.

  ‘We’ll both do it. There’s safety in numbers.’

  It was a beautiful clear night as Jill walked the short distance to the village hall.

  Outside the building, the bonfire was piled high and excited children clutched paper hats decorated with rockets and Catherine wheels ready for the competition. Speakers had been rigged up for music and, presumably, so that everyone could hear the sound of Big Ben ringing in the New Year.

  The smell was delicious. Hot-dogs and burgers were being cooked and potatoes baked. It was the treacle toffee that appealed to Jill, though. She’d had toast for breakfast, but her hospital visit had robbed her of her appetite until now.

  ‘Go inside and spend a lot of money, Jill.’ Ella was in charge of the baked potatoes. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll save you some food.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere until I have treacle toffee,’ Jill assured her.

  ‘Is Max coming?’

  ‘Who knows? He said he’d try to be here. I expect he will because he half promised Harry and Ben.’

  With a bag of toffee in her pocket, and a chunk in her mouth, Jill went inside.

  Various stalls lined the walls and they were already busy. Villagers were buying books, trying their luck at the tombola or guessing the number of sweets in the jar. The bar in the adjoining room was doing a good trade too, she noticed.

  The Reverend Harrison took to the stage and grabbed the microphone. He welcomed everyone, thanked them for coming, urged people to dig deep into their pockets, and then invited Hannah Brooks on to the stage to announce the results of the children’s New Year hat competition.

  ‘I’ve had the most difficult task of the evening,’ Hannah told them.

  She looked incredibly smart, dressed more for dinner than a fireworks party. Smiling and confident, she soon had her audience laughing.

  ‘The hats are wonderful and every child deserves a prize,’ she said. ‘However, there has to be a winner so here’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. In third place is Chloe Duckworth. Well done, Chloe. In second place, Jeremy Webb. An excellent job, Jeremy. And the winner is—could I have a drum roll, please?’

  A taped drum roll sounded.

  ‘The winner is Sophie Jones.’

  There was much applause as the children took to the stage to collect their prizes.

  Jill walked over to inspect the hats. Hannah was right; it was almost impossible to judge them. Jill wondered if she’d had such patience as a child. No, of course she hadn’t. It would have been left to her parents to make hats in the shape of Big Ben or giant fireworks.

  Between chunks of toffee, Jill chatted with Hannah and Gordon, then with Jack Taylor and Archie Weston.

  She spent money, grabbed herself a large glass of mulled wine and ventured outside.

  Hannah, Kelton Bridge’s very own celebrity, was soon escorted outside for the ceremonial lighting of the bonfire. Closely watched by members of the local fire crew, she lit the fire in four places and stepped back to admire the flames as they leapt skyward.

  Jill was on her second bag of toffee, and feeling slightly sick, when Max and the boys arrived.

  ‘Who wants toffee?’ she asked, offering the bag.

  ‘No, thanks. I want a hot-dog,’ Ben told her.

  ‘And I’m having a burger,’ Harry said.

  ‘Max?’

  ‘No, thanks. You could always save it till tomorrow.’

  ‘Ah, but that’s the problem. I can’t.’

  When Harry and Ben dashed off to spend Max’s money, they wandered over for a chat with Ella. She soon thrust baked potatoes that oozed melted cheese into their hands.

  When they were out of Ella’s sight, Jill handed hers to Max.

  ‘I can’t eat another thing.’

  Max had no such problems.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve spotted any pipe-smoking transvestites hanging around, have you?’ he asked, sarcasm evident in the lift of dark eyebrows.

  She had to smile. ‘No, but there’s plenty of time yet. Nothing would surprise me any more.’

  Flames leapt higher from the bonfire. If they weren’t careful, it would have burnt itself out before midnight.

  It was good to see the residents of Kelton Bridge enjoying themselves. Good to see everyone preparing to welcome a brand new year.

  There were a few absentees, of course. No one from Kelton Manor had turned up. Jill wouldn’t have expected them to. Joan Murphy, having spent her first Christmas and New Year without her husband, wasn’t there either. But most people were.

  Activity increased around the bonfire. The music coming from the speakers faded. People fell silent. Then someone began a countdown. When that ended, everyone held their breath until, finally, Big Ben chimed in the New Year.

  A huge cheer went up and people hugged their neighbours.

  Jill lifted her face for her kiss from Max. She hadn’t expected much, just a perfunctory peck on the cheek perhaps, but—

  ‘The perfume that Phoebe Johnson wears,’ he said. ‘If you were Tessa Bailey, would you describe it as expensive?’

  Jill rolled her eyes. ‘Happy New Year to you too, Max.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Phoebe’s perfume? Yes, I probably would.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘Aw, come on,’ Fletch complained, ‘you’re eating me out of Mars bars.’

  Jill and Grace had both helped themselves from Fletch’s desk.

  ‘I’ll go and stock up in a minute,’ Jill promised. ‘I need a coffee anyway.’

  The three of them were at Fletch’s desk going through yet more details of Bradley Johnson’s life.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s lunchtime,’ Fletch said. ‘I’ll get us a sandwich or something.’ He held out his hand for donations.

  ‘I’ve got no change,’ Grace told him.

  Jill hunted in her pockets. ‘M
e neither.’

  ‘I don’t want change,’ he said, hand still outstretched, ‘I want crisp, clean notes. Still, it’s no skin off my nose. You can both starve for all I care.’

  They gave him notes and he went off for food.

  Jill, ignoring her grumbling stomach, carried on looking at statements from students at both Sheffield and Lancaster Universities.

  She found it odd that so many students from each university knew both brothers. Tyler and Keiran, it seemed, stuck together and, if you were a friend of Tyler’s, you were automatically a friend of Keiran’s. But brotherly love wasn’t a crime. It might be unusual, but it wasn’t against the law.

  Max was probably right. The Johnsons were merely trying to cover up the fact that all hadn’t been well in the family. People assumed that other families were ‘normal’, that children excelled at everything, that spouses never exchanged a cross word …

  It was a good idea sending Fletch for food because he never failed to return with enough to feed the entire force.

  ‘The lemon meringue is mine,’ he warned them.

  That suited Jill who had her eye on the chocolate muffin.

  ‘So what do we know about the family?’ she said, grabbing a beef sandwich. ‘According to Melanie Bishop, the young girl they employed to clean, Bradley and Phoebe had a volatile relationship. Also, we know that the sons, despite their claims to the contrary, both had a difficult relationship with their father. He pushed them hard, he constantly reminded them of the sacrifices he was making by putting them through uni. In short, he put them under a lot of pressure.’

  ‘He was a right bastard really, wasn’t he?’ Grace said.

  ‘Financially he was OK,’ Fletch put in between mouthfuls of sandwich. ‘But we know he lived on cash. The fifteen grand that Joan Murphy paid him, for example, never found its way to any bank that we know of. Caterers for that party, car servicing—all paid in cash.’

  ‘He handed over a cheque for Tyler’s car,’ Grace pointed out.

  They concentrated on eating for a few minutes.

  When Fletch had finished the slice of lemon meringue and had a cup of tea in his hand, he spoke with resignation. ‘None of this brings us any closer to discovering his connection to Tom McQueen.’