Detectives Merry & Neal Books 1-3

by JANICE FROST

  “You bloody provoked me, mate! You was totally out of order.”

  Neal paused, then cautioned Irons for using abusive language to a police officer.

  “Typical, ain’t it? I’m the one who’s a victim here and I get a warning for defending myself.”

  Ripper emitted a sympathetic whimper.

  “But I think my sergeant was right, wasn’t she, Mr Irons? Unless there’s some other reason why you didn’t go after Warrior?”

  Ava braced herself for another stream of invective, but Irons seemed to be exhausted. He leaned back in his soft leather sofa.

  “I could’ve had him put away for manslaughter,” he said, a tell-tale quiver in his voice. “That bastard boasted he was fondling her tits and distracted her so she lost control of the car.”

  Ava and Neal exchanged looks. “He actually confessed that to you?” Ava said. “Why would he do that?”

  “Getting back at me for the bullying, and because he knew I wouldn’t say anything. Anyway, it would have been his word against mine if I’d tried to make anything of it.”

  He stared at Ava, and she knew she had been right.

  “Satisfied?” Irons said.

  Ava felt a pang of sympathy for him then. She saw that he too, was a victim. Then again, he had done some very bad things.

  “You taking me in, then? Only I need to make arrangements for Ripper.”

  “If it was Warrior dead instead of Gray Mitchell, I might consider it,” Neal answered. He stood up. “Ripper’s safe for the time being.”

  Back outside, Ava said, “You don’t think he did it, do you?”

  Neal didn’t answer until they reached the car. “As I’ve said countless times, what I think doesn’t matter. It’s what can be established from the evidence and the facts that counts. And for now, that’s not a great deal.”

  Chapter 17

  “Angie!” Marcus called.

  Angie Dent was leaving the workshop for her afternoon break. “D’you fancy a walk?” Marcus said. “I thought we could talk about . . . you know?”

  “Caitlin?”

  “Yeah. I know you’re missing her a lot and I thought maybe I could, you know, kind of . . . help.” This wasn’t going well. He should have rehearsed what he wanted to say instead of trying to wing it.

  “I’m still finding it a bit weird that you two couldn’t have told me you were seeing each other. I mean, I was Caitlin’s best friend.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry about that. It was just that we didn’t want too many people to know, what with us working at the same place. We thought it might have been kind of awkward.”

  “I’m not ‘many people,’ Marcus. You guys were my friends.”

  Although Angie hadn’t agreed to a walk, they had fallen into step together. Marcus steered them towards the cathedral. It didn’t take long to reach the spot where Gray’s body had been found.

  “I walk past here every day,” Marcus said. “First Gray, now Caitlin. Do you think there’s any connection?”

  Angie shrugged. “Who would want to kill either of them? Gray was a lovely man and Caitlin . . . well, you loved her too, so I don’t need to tell you what Caitlin was like.”

  “We broke up,” Marcus said. “The day before . . . Caitlin died . . . she told me she didn’t want to go out with me anymore.”

  Angie stopped dead. She placed a hand on Marcus’s arm, “I’m sorry, Marcus. That must be hard. I’m sorry for being selfish. We’ve both lost someone we cared about.” She gave a sniff.

  “Hug?”

  “Okay.”

  They held tightly to each other. To anyone passing by they would have looked like a couple of lovers in a happy embrace. When Marcus released her, he was aware of Angie’s reluctance to be let go. They shuffled apart, both standing awkwardly, hands stuffed in their jacket pockets.

  “Thanks,” said Angie. “That helped.”

  “It helped me too,” Marcus said, smiling at her. Angie smiled back.

  She looked much prettier without her pink hair, Marcus thought. Caitlin had told him that Angie would be jealous if she knew about their relationship. She was a possessive friend and she fancied Marcus herself. Marcus had sensed it, of course. Angie had flirted with him on many occasions, often when Caitlin was around. Sometimes he’d even flirted back, but for some reason it amused Caitlin rather than upset her. It was as though she was having a laugh at Angie’s expense. Or had it been at his? Marcus had to admit that when he’d begun his apprenticeship at the cathedral and met Caitlin and Angie, he’d liked them both.

  Marcus generally considered women to be savvier than men, particularly when it came to all that touchy feely stuff about emotions and relationships and the like. So he had accepted that Caitlin knew what she was talking about, and that she had sound reasons for keeping their relationship a secret. Now Marcus wanted to know why it had been such a big deal. Angie Dent seemed to him to be the obvious place to start. Trouble was he needed to get to know her better. He cleared his throat.

  “I know this is going to sound a bit weird, Angie, but I was wondering if maybe we could go for a drink later and have a chat?”

  Angie stared at him. She was clearly surprised and Marcus worried that she might think he was making a move on her. They had walked all around the cathedral and were almost back at the workshop.

  “You want to talk about Caitlin,” she said quietly.

  Marcus was sure he could detect disappointment, resentment even, in her tone. “Caitlin and I broke up. She made it pretty clear she didn’t want to see me again. Even though I’m grieving, I’m feeling kind of conflicted. She told me she didn’t have any feelings for me anymore.”

  Marcus made what he hoped was his best wounded puppy face. The girls at school had always found it cute and irresistible. Angie wavered, looking at him closely, shifting from foot to foot and clearly feeling unsure herself. Then she put her hand on his cheek.

  “Okay. But, just for a talk. You’re still on the rebound and I don’t want to be your temporary fix.”

  Marcus covered her hand with his and nodded. At that moment, Vincent Bone appeared at the door to the workshop. He frowned, and reminded them that their break was over, something he almost never did. Marcus felt embarrassed. He didn’t want to lose the respect of a man he held in high regard. While everyone now knew about his relationship with Caitlin, he was pretty sure they didn’t know that Caitlin had dumped him the night she was killed. He was also pretty sure that the police hadn’t told anyone about the text he’d sent to Caitlin.

  “Call me,” Angie whispered, and pulled her hand away.

  * * *

  Saturday morning. It was eight thirty. Neal turned into the leisure centre car park and glanced in the rear-view mirror. Archie was sitting in the back seat, frantically pressing buttons on his 3DS.

  “This isn’t looking good,” Neal said.

  “What? Oh.” The car park was empty. The few vehicles in sight were turning around and heading for the exit. Usually on a Saturday morning the place would be swarming with vehicles coming and going as parents brought carloads of kids for their swimming lessons.

  “Is the pool closed?” Archie asked, yawning.

  “Good deduction, Sherlock. Sit tight while I ask the guy by the door.”

  He returned a couple of minutes later. “Boiler’s broken. Pool’s lukewarm at best and there’s no hot water in the showers. Apparently they put something on their website about it last night.”

  “Aaaw maaaan!” Archie groaned. He enjoyed his Saturday lesson.

  “We could go to the pool at the Academy.”

  “I hate that pool, and the changing rooms are rubbish. There’s no cubicles.” Archie was just beginning to be self-conscious about undressing in front of others. “Anyway, it’s always lessons at this time on a Saturday morning. We wouldn’t get in.”

  “Breakfast?” Neal said. It was their other Saturday morning ritual. Breakfast at one of the cafés at the bottom end of the Long Hill, usuall
y after Archie’s swim. Later in the day Neal would be working but he always tried to keep this part of the weekend free for Archie.

  Neal drove along Greenwell Road, one of the main routes on the north side of the city. At this time of the morning there was hardly any traffic. To avoid the city’s hefty car-parking charges, Neal left the car at the top of the hill and they walked in the direction of the cathedral. As they passed the west front, Archie asked Neal to show him the exact spot where Gray Mitchell’s body had landed. Neal pointed at the grassed area and reminded Archie to be respectful.

  “Remember that cool medieval jousting tournament that we saw back in the summer holidays?” Archie said.

  They passed through a stone arch leading to the cobbled square between the cathedral and the castle. Neal smiled, remembering his son’s enthusiasm for the event.

  “Where are we eating this week?” He always left the choice to Archie.

  “Mattie’s?” Archie said. The café was on a side street near the bottom of the Long Hill where the High Street began. It had been Archie’s choice for the previous three weeks.

  “They’ll be surprised to see us so early.”

  The morning delivery was arriving just as they came in the door. Neal and Archie headed for their usual table, stopping at the counter to say good morning to the manager. Susan was standing on a steep ladder leading down to the basement storeroom. Neal suspected that this was what attracted his son to Mattie’s café. The first week they had visited, the morning delivery had been late and they had seen the trap door to the basement lifted up for the first time. Archie had shown so much interest that Susan had allowed him and Neal to climb down and take a look at the basement, which was as big as the café upstairs. Neal was already familiar with it. A couple of years ago, when Mattie’s had been a butcher’s shop, he had climbed down the same ladder to view the butcher’s body, which was lying in a pool of blood and sawdust, a meat cleaver embedded in his chest.

  “I’ll be with you in a jiffy,” Susan called, disappearing down the hatch. She was telling the delivery man that she’d just got back from a fortnight in Alicante and was reacclimatising to the cold.

  At last she was ready to take their order. Neal ordered coffee and a croissant for himself and a big breakfast for Archie.

  “Shocking business all these murders, isn’t it, lovey?” Susan remarked when she brought their order over. “So close to the Christmas market, too.”

  She had no idea Neal was a police officer and he wasn’t about to enlighten her. He glared at Archie, to indicate he shouldn’t give him away.

  “He came in here sometimes, Mr Mitchell, the man they found up at the cathedral. Nice man, very polite. He liked my coffee. He used to come in with a young man, a young acting hopeful, I think. He was telling me he was in a play at the Tithe Barn Theatre. Gray was giving him some acting tips. They liked to sit upstairs where it was quiet and they had a view of the street.”

  Neal stared at her. He knew for a fact that one of his uniformed officers had crossed Mattie’s off during the door to door search of places likely to be visited by Gray Mitchell. But Susan had been on holiday. She wouldn’t have seen the artist’s impression of the young man Mitchell had been seen with at the Barley Inn.

  As soon as Susan moved away from their table, Neal whipped out his phone and sent a text to Ava. He asked her to send him a copy of the artist’s drawing and to obtain programmes for recent plays at the Tithe Barn. Even if there was no picture of Gray’s mystery man on the programme, they should be able to find someone at the Tithe Barn who could identify him from the artist’s impression.

  When Susan returned with their food, he showed her the picture.

  “Is this the young man you saw with Mr Mitchell?”

  “That’s him,” Susan said. She looked at Neal. “Are you a policeman?”

  “He’s a Detective Inspector!” Archie piped up.

  “Is that young man the killer?” Susan asked, alarmed.

  “No, just someone we need to talk to,” Neal answered quickly. “I can’t tell you anything more.”

  “That’s alright. My brother’s a copper. He’s in the Met. I know all about being discreet.” She beamed at Neal. “You let me know when you’ve finished that drink, lovey. It’s bottomless coffee for you from now on.”

  “Good choice of eating place,” whispered Neal to Archie when Susan moved away from their table.

  Archie grinned. No doubt he thought Neal was referring to the food.

  * * *

  Neal dropped Archie at home at lunchtime and drove straight to the station. He couldn’t wait to speak with Ava.

  He found her at her desk, surrounded by theatre programmes. “Any joy?”

  “Yes, sir. I called round at the Tithe Barn just after I got your text this morning. I showed the front of house manager our picture and she recognised our mystery man immediately.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  Ava nodded.

  “Nathan Elliott. Seventeen years old. Doing A levels at the grammar school, would you believe? Ollie knows him. He’s a friend of George Irons, Ray Irons’ son.”

  Ray Irons. Again. The man’s name kept coming up, yet Neal still resisted seeing him as their killer.

  “What else did Ollie say?”

  “That’s all. But . . .” Ava paused. “Nathan’s coming over this afternoon. Ollie rang him up and asked if he could come over and help with a maths problem. We can go there now and ask Nathan a few questions.”

  “Nice work, Sergeant.”

  “Hell, yeah!”

  Neal half-expected her to try to high-five him the way Archie was always doing. He was relieved when she restrained herself.

  “I’ll take my own car, then you don’t need to come back here afterwards . . . I’m sure you have plans for the evening.” Neal managed not to make it sound like a question, but he was fishing and Ava wasn’t likely to miss the implication.

  “I’m seeing Joel. He’s off until Sunday evening, so we thought we’d drive to the Wrenwood and stay over.”

  Neal forced a smile. It was difficult. The Wrenwood was a country house built at the turn of the twentieth century in the style of a Jacobean mansion. Neal had dined there once, with Jock Dodds. They had sat in a glorious oak-panelled dining-room with views over acres of gardens and woodland.

  “Ready, sir?”

  “Aye,” Neal said, quietly. “I’ll see you there.”

  * * *

  Ava’s lonely cottage was four miles out of Stromford and set back from the road in a copse with only a few other cottages. None of these were less than a quarter of a mile away from Ava’s. The last time Neal had visited he had arrived to find her trying to staunch the blood flowing from the neck of a suspect she’d just stabbed with a pair of kitchen scissors. He was counting on less drama this time around.

  Through an avenue of trees leading to Ava’s cottage, Neal saw his sergeant’s new Ford Fiesta already parked near her front door. He pulled in and parked alongside it.

  Ava had left the door open and Neal walked inside to a delicious aroma of baking. Ava had told him that Ollie was a keen cook. Neal thought it an unusual hobby for a boy his age. Maggie was a big fan of Bake Off but Neal found the nation’s enthusiasm for the show perplexing.

  Now there was no one bleeding out on Ava’s sofa, Neal had time to take in her living room. The décor was a mixture of the contemporary and the traditional. The sofa was new, he noted. He wondered if she had claimed for it on her house insurance. It would have made for an interesting claim. All that blood.

  Ava emerged from the kitchen. “Make yourself at home, sir. Can I get you a drink? Ollie, come and say hi.”

  A young man popped his head around the opening and gave Neal a wave. If Neal hadn’t known they were brother and sister, he would have thought they were unrelated. Chalk and cheese, his mother would have said. Nor did the difference end with their appearance — one dark, one fair. Ollie seemed to lack Ava’s confidence and self-ass
urance.

  “Tea, please.” Neal made for a long oak table that seemed to be a hub for police work and homework. There was a laptop at either end and a collection of textbooks and papers opposite what Neal recognised as Ava’s notebooks. He positioned himself somewhere between the two.

  “Nathan will be here soon,” Ava said, handing Neal a mug of tea and a slice of cake. “Ollie’s been baking.” She shouted into the kitchen. “What’s this one called again, bro?”

  “Chocolate and vanilla marble loaf cake! It’s Mary Berry’s recipe.”

  Ava shrugged. “It’s a cake. I’ll eat it.” She took a generous bite.

  They heard the sound of a motorbike outside and Ollie came out of the kitchen, dressed in a striped chef’s apron.

  “That’ll be Nathan,” he said, heading for the door. Neal and Ava exchanged glances. A lot was riding on what Nathan Elliot would have to say.

  Ollie and Nathan high-fived each other on the doorstep and spoke for a few minutes. A couple of times Nathan looked over at Neal and Ava and nodded his head. Neal wasn’t sure how much Nathan knew about the real purpose of his visit. He hoped it wasn’t a complete ambush.

  “Ollie’s already told him why we’re here,” Ava said.

  The introductions over, Ollie and Nathan sat down opposite Neal and Ava. Neal opted to let Ava do the interview.

  “Nathan, we know that you were acquainted with Gray Mitchell, the man who was murdered a couple of weeks ago up at the cathedral.” Nathan nodded. “Can you remember the last time you saw Gray?”

  “On the fifteenth. We went to Mattie’s . . . I, er, didn’t want to risk any of my friends seeing me with Gray.”

  Neal was interested that it was that way around. He’d thought it had been Mitchell who didn’t want to be seen.

  “Why was that, Nathan?” Ava asked gently.

  Ollie, Neal noted, was staring at his hands.

  “Because, well, you know, because . . .” Nathan looked to Ollie for support, but Ava’s brother said nothing.

  “Because Gray Mitchell was gay?” Ava prompted.

  “I’m not prejudiced,” Nathan said hastily.