This was a real breakthrough as Tom McQueen’s minder—or driver—hadn’t been seen since his boss had been murdered.
‘You’ll never guess where,’ Grace said grinning. ‘Just down the road at Manchester airport. He was about to board a plane to Ireland. I’m going to have great fun with him,’ she added gleefully.
‘Me too, I hope.’
John Barry had taken over the role of chief suspect the second McQueen was found dead. He’d have killed Khalil. Possibly, no probably, on McQueen’s orders. Then, perhaps they argued. Perhaps McQueen didn’t recompense his hired guns highly enough. John Barry would have taken exception to that and decided to teach McQueen a lesson.
There was a flaw to that argument. With McQueen dead, Barry couldn’t expect a pay rise. And how the hell did Tessa fit into the picture?
If she really didn’t know the circumstances surrounding her boyfriend’s death, why leave her for dead on the back streets of Harrington?
They would worry about that later. Now that Barry had been found, they could, hopefully, arrange an identification parade and see if Claire would identify him as the man sent to rough her up, the same man sent to get Daisy.
Jill’s phone rang and she saw from the display that her mother was calling.
‘Hi, Mum!’ Even her mother had to make more sense than this tangled mess.
Chapter Thirty-One
Max was getting annoyed, seriously annoyed, with John Barry, and he was a step away from strangling the bloke’s lawyer.
Joe Hale, defence lawyer to the lowlife, was doing no more to earn his money than advise his client not to answer Max’s questions.
‘On the evening in question, January the twentieth last year, Tom McQueen’s car was seen on Maltby Hill, less than five hundred yards from where Muhammed Khalil’s body was found. Were you driving the car?’
‘I was asked that same question a year ago.’ For once, Barry answered without consulting his lawyer.
‘Yes, and you told us then that you weren’t driving it. Perhaps you’ve had a rethink.’
‘Hey, look, I can’t be expected to remember that far back. If I told you I wasn’t, then I wasn’t. Perhaps Mr McQueen was. Hell, even Mrs McQueen drove the car occasionally.’
‘Muhammed Khalil worked for your boss. McQueen was dealing—crack, I gather—and Khalil tried to do the dirty on him. Khalil got greedy and pretended he’d been robbed of your boss’s precious crack. In reality, he sold the goods himself.’
‘Crack?’ Barry smiled at that. ‘That’s a very serious allegation.’
‘It is.’
‘You must be thinking of the wrong man. My boss knew nothing about drugs.’
‘Khalil panicked,’ Max went on. ‘He heard McQueen was after him so he packed a few belongings and walked out on his girlfriend. He was on the run from McQueen—or one of his sidekicks. The next thing, we find him with a bullet through his head.’
‘It’s not safe out there, is it? I’m always saying the government should put more coppers on the streets.’
‘As well as supplying the area with crack, McQueen had a penchant for prostitutes. Who drove him on those nights? You?’
‘Wrong man, Chief Inspector. My boss had a beautiful wife.’
‘He did, but he screwed prostitutes.’
‘Oh, I can’t believe that.’
‘Where exactly have you been since McQueen’s body was pumped full of bullets?’
‘I’ve told you time and time again,’ he said patiently. ‘I had a holiday booked in Scotland. It was booked six months ago. I go up there for Christmas and Hogmanay every year.’ He smiled slyly. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t managed to check that out yet.’
They’d scrutinized every last detail and, sod it, it all checked out, just as John Barry claimed.
‘And you didn’t hear of your boss’s sudden demise? I can’t believe that.’
‘Not a whisper.’
Max’s patience had worn well beyond thin.
‘So you return from Scotland, and go home to unpack. Then, within twelve hours, you’re heading off to Ireland.’
‘That’s right.’ John Barry leaned back in his seat, massive arms crossed against bulging chest muscles, and eyes twinkling with devilment. He was confident they had nothing on him.
Max had the sinking feeling that he was right.
‘And you didn’t think to check in with your boss,’ he pushed on.
‘No. Why should I? I was on holiday.’
‘I believe my client is due a break,’ the oily little lawyer said.
‘Spinal cord preferably,’ Max muttered.
He suspended the interview and went to get himself a coffee while Barry was fed and watered. He got two coffees and took them along to Jill’s office.
‘Is that for me?’ She reached out for the plastic cup. ‘You must be a mind reader.’
‘God, I wish.’ He dragged a chair across the room and dropped on to it. ‘There’s no possibility that he’s telling the truth, is there?’
‘John Barry? Never in a million years.’
‘He was definitely in Scotland the night before and the night after McQueen was killed,’ he pointed out.
‘But you know as well as I do that, as soon as he knew what was going on, he’d have made sure he was a good distance away.’
‘Hm. But he made the booking six months ago.’
Jill frowned at him. ‘Surely you don’t believe his story.’
‘No, of course not.’ And yet—‘I can’t understand how he can have had anything to do with that sodding shooting.’
‘He wouldn’t have been working alone,’ Jill said easily. ‘We wouldn’t expect him to be. He was seen with McQueen too often. It had to look like an honest, working relationship.’
Max felt defeated. He was no closer to solving Khalil’s murder than he had been last year. Every lead they followed took them straight back to square one. They had nothing.
‘And now the lying bastard is having lunch courtesy of the taxpayer,’ he said darkly. ‘Bloody marvellous.’
His coffee finished, he tossed his empty cup in the waste-bin and got to his feet.
‘I’ll go and see how much more of his story we’ve managed to confirm.’
‘I’ll come with you. I need to stretch my legs.’
Several officers, Fletch and Grace included, were busy on their phones, but there was nothing new.
‘We’re missing something vital,’ Max said to no one in particular. ‘Something’s been bugging me about McQueen’s murder from the start.’
But what?
He thought back to that afternoon, to his meeting with Barbara McQueen, to their time in the coffee bar, to her calling the taxi’s office, to her stopping for those cases of wine …
‘Grace, have we got Barbara McQueen’s phone records yet?’ he asked.
‘The landline, yes. The last I heard, we were still waiting for her mobile details. Why?’
‘Just curious,’ he said, still not sure which direction his thoughts were taking. ‘Hurry it along, will you? Check the calls she made on her mobile the day he was killed.’
Why exactly had he gone into the house that day? If she’d managed to get a taxi, and if she hadn’t insisted on stopping for that wine …
Yet she couldn’t have known he would be in Harrington that afternoon. He’d only stopped the car and decided to go for a coffee on impulse. And she couldn’t have known he would be walking round that corner.
All the same, he’d made a damn good witness that day. Walking into the house with her like that, he’d seen her outpourings of shock and grief at first hand.
Chapter Thirty-Two
On Friday morning, Jill was in interview room three alongside Max. Barbara McQueen, sitting opposite, looked confident and immaculately groomed. Her hair was just so, her clothes—red trousers and white shirt in linen—looked expensive, and there wasn’t so much as a single chip to be seen on her red-polished fingernails. She wore a lot of jewell
ery, all gold, all expensive.
Jill’s mind was wandering. John Barry had agreed to take part in an identification parade and Claire Lawrence had been brought up from Styal. Any minute now, the identification officers should let them know the result.
Jill was in no doubt that the man sent to threaten Claire was Barry. But would Claire identify him? Most witnesses found it an intimidating experience, harrowing even, and a lot were reluctant to openly accuse someone of a crime. Claire, still not entirely convinced that Tom McQueen was dead, was more frightened than most.
‘I owe you an apology,’ Barbara McQueen told Max softly. ‘I was distraught that afternoon—the afternoon we found my Tommy. I didn’t know what I was doing. But that’s no excuse. I should never have accused you of brutality. I know you were only trying to protect me.’
Trying to protect the crime scene more like, Jill thought.
‘I understand,’ Max replied, equally pleasant. ‘Talk me through what happened that day,’ he said.
‘Well, as you know, I went to the spa in the morning. I had a good long swim, a massage and a sauna. Then I had a manicure before going to the hairdresser’s.’
Jill applied lipstick each day. And that was it. Mrs McQueen was always immaculately turned out, but Jill couldn’t believe that the time, not to mention the money, involved in achieving the effect was worth it. If she had to spend her days being worked on to that degree, she would go mad.
‘What time did you go to the spa?’ Max asked.
‘I was there by ten o’clock.’
According to their reckoning, Tom McQueen had been killed sometime between ten and midday.
‘And it was after you came out of the hairdresser’s that we bumped into each other, is that right?’ Max asked her.
‘Yes. And you kindly bought me a coffee.’
‘And then you tried calling a taxi,’ Max reminded her.
‘I did. Except, as you’ve discovered, I was calling the wrong number. I was phoning home and there was no one there …’ She paused to dab at her eyes with a tissue. ‘It’s an easy enough mistake to make. I have the house phone, Tommy’s mobile, the hairdresser, the spa and the taxi on speed dial,’ she explained. ‘It’s all too easy to get confused and call the wrong one.’
Was it hell. Once maybe, but if you weren’t getting anywhere, you’d check you had the right number. At least, Jill would.
‘I’m sure it is,’ Max agreed smoothly. ‘The thing is, you told me the number you were trying to call was engaged. Now, as we’ve ascertained that you were phoning your home number in error, I wonder how that happened?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied.
‘According to our records, no one used that phone. There was no reason why you should have received an engaged tone.’
‘There must have been a fault on the line,’ she said.
The moisture in the eyes, the shaky voice—it was all an act. A damn good one, admittedly, but Barbara McQueen was a fake. She’d married Tom for his money, Jill would bet her cottage on that.
Max wanted them to be all sweetness and light on this first interview, but Jill was beginning to think that was a waste of time. Max could tread softly; Jill wanted some answers.
‘Your husband had sex with prostitutes,’ she remarked casually. ‘I suppose you knew that.’
‘A lot of men do.’ Yes, she was very cool. ‘What about you, Max? Do you indulge?’
‘Well, DCI Trentham?’ Jill prompted, giving him her sugary smile.
‘No, I don’t,’ he said finally, scowling at Jill. ‘I’ve always assumed they’re a last resort for men who don’t get it at home.’
‘Oh, they are,’ Jill lied. ‘I bet Tommy was a bit embarrassed really. A half-decent, young woman at home and the poor bloke wasn’t getting anything. Did he take kindly to that, Mrs McQueen?’
‘He got plenty.’
‘Really?’ Jill didn’t have to fake her surprise. ‘I would have thought you might have fancied someone younger. And someone fifty to sixty pounds lighter. Still, there’s no accounting for taste, is there?’
‘You don’t know anything about me and Tommy.’
‘True. Married to a gem like Tom and now you stand to inherit a small fortune. Well, a large fortune, in fact. The gods are really smiling on you, Mrs McQueen.’
‘You think the money’s any consolation for losing my Tommy?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many times have you called a phone number in error?’ Max asked her.
‘Loads.’
‘Care to give me a few examples?’
She smiled at that. ‘Sorry, but I’ve never taken notes.’
‘You get all sorts of nasty diseases from sleeping with prostitutes,’ Jill put in, pleased to see that Mrs McQueen was having trouble keeping up. ‘Protection gets forgotten or ignored. Have you been to the clinic to get yourself checked out? That would be a rather unpleasant legacy, wouldn’t it? No soreness? Inflammation?’
‘You’re so coarse,’ Barbara McQueen said with real disgust.
‘So I’ve been told.’ Jill shrugged. ‘It was just a bit of friendly advice. If I found out that my husband had been having it away with crackheads, I’d get myself checked out p.d.q.’
Barbara looked at her the way someone might look at slug slime.
‘How did Tom pay for sex?’ Jill went on, unconcerned. ‘Did he treat them to some crack? I suppose he did. It would cut out the middleman, wouldn’t it? There’d be no point his giving them cash, only for them to buy crack from him. That would be plain silly.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
She knew. The innocent, scatterbrained wife who spent half her life at the hairdresser’s didn’t exist. Never had.
Well, perhaps she had existed on that memorable train journey all those years ago, but something, marriage to Tom perhaps, had sent her packing.
‘He gave crack to young kids, too, didn’t he? As young as eleven. Still, get them addicted young, eh? Far more profitable. Did he fancy sex with those? The eleven-year-olds, I mean?’
‘OK, you’ve enjoyed your little joke.’ Barbara’s expression was glacial. ‘If you want to know anything else, you’ll have to wait until my lawyer’s here.’
Damn.
Barbara refused to utter another word and Max had no alternative but to suspend the interview until her lawyer arrived.
‘Nice going, Jill,’ he muttered as they left the room.
‘Sorry.’
‘And what was all that prostitute crap?’ he demanded. ‘What in hell’s name does that have to do with anything?’
‘She’s lived with Tom McQueen for years without poisoning him or shooting him,’ Jill reasoned. ‘Something’s happened. Recently. Something has driven her to murder.’
Max rolled his eyes. ‘Shagging the odd street girl was the least of McQueen’s crimes.’
‘True. But if you were Barbara, practically living in beauty salons and designer shops, spending your husband’s ill-gotten gains, what would suddenly drive you over the edge?’
He stopped walking to consider that, but he had no answer.
‘If it were me,’ Jill told him smoothly, ‘I’d be pretty annoyed—absolutely furious in fact—if I discovered he’d slept with someone else.’ She slapped a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, sorry, you already know that, don’t you? I’m sure you can remember how—displeased—I was when you left me at home to spend the night with Miss Young and Attractive.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’
Damn it, she’d vowed never to bring that up again.
‘I’d be even more annoyed—yes, more annoyed—if I found out he was regularly shagging crackheads. And if he passed on an STD, I would probably kill him.’
Max was weighing up her logic.
‘On the other hand,’ she said with a careless shrug, ‘he might just have refused to buy her a new pair of Jimmy Choos.’
Jill had known she was at fault for making Barbara demand her la
wyer, but, having vented her anger, she felt much better.
Max carried on walking.
‘Coffee?’ he asked her.
‘Please.’ And now she didn’t feel quite so good. ‘And I’m sorry I dragged Miss Young and Attractive into it. I was trying to make a point, but that’s no excuse, I know. I apologize.’
A reluctant laugh escaped him. ‘Jill Kennedy utters an apology. How much more surreal can this day get?’
‘Don’t tempt fate.’
With coffees from the machine in their hands, they went to the office where the sight that met them told them surreal had only just started. Fletch, all food abandoned, was lying on the floor, chanting, ‘Thank you, God! Bloody thank you!’
‘Are they bringing out a three-foot Mars bar, Fletch?’ Max quipped.
At the sound of Max’s voice, Fletch sprang to his feet and stood by his desk. ‘No, Max. It’s even better.’ His face was tinged red with embarrassment. ‘While John Barry was in Scotland, it seems that Mrs McQueen called him several times.’
‘Did she indeed?’
‘We think so, yes. We’ve spoken to the hotel’s receptionist—not the regular one, but the one that stood in for holidays. She claims to have taken as many as four calls in one day from a female calling herself Babs. Always from a phone booth apparently.’
‘So they were in this together?’ Max murmured.
‘It looks like it.’
‘At least we know Barry’s lying,’ Grace said. ‘I’m sure she would have mentioned the small fact of her husband being shot to bits in passing.’
‘We’d best have another chat with him,’ Max said.
They were on their way to see him when they heard the news. Claire, now heading back to Styal, hadn’t recognized anyone at the identification parade. Or so she said.
Jill wasn’t surprised. Frustrated, but not surprised.
‘I suppose it was a nice day out for her,’ Max remarked.
Chapter Thirty-Three
This time, on Jill’s advice, Max decided to play the nice cop with John Barry. It went against nature but, as Jill had pointed out, they needed his cooperation.
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