by J. E. Mayhew
“Thank you Mrs Simmonds,” Kath said, settling on the sofa next to the old lady. “I know it might be difficult, going back over these things…”
Mrs Simmonds waved a hand and her gold rings flashed. “Call me Vera, Kath,” she said. “And don’t you worry about asking any hard questions. Carly lived life to the full. She was a bright flame in our lives and sadly snatched away but it was many years ago.”
“Thank you Mrs… Vera,” Kath said, pulling out her notebook. “So, you said Carly lived life to the full. What did you mean by that?”
Vera Simmonds gave Kath an arched look. “She liked to party,” she said. “Carly was always off galivanting around Liverpool or hob-knobbing with the Cheshire Set. There wasn’t a weekend that she wasn’t driving over to Wilmslow for some reception, or even down to London. She loved the big shows…went to the first night of Evita and met Andrew Lloyd Webber at the after-show party. Oh, the stories she came back and told us! She was so full of life…”
“She was a beautiful woman. Did she have many admirers?” Kath said.
Vera waggled her penciled-on eyebrows. “Of course she did but she wasn’t a tart. The police said she was a ‘call girl’ and suggested that she took money from men. There was none of that. She made a living selling perfume and she was a great saleswoman. The men she dated were perfect gentlemen…”
“Apart from David Collins.”
“No. He was a kind man. Very gentle and unassuming. I never understood that,” Vera said. “How could a man that nice hurt anyone?”
Kath frowned. “You don’t think he killed Carly?”
“I don’t know, do I?” Vera said and shrugged. “It just seemed odd to me. Of course, we didn’t know he was married and had two little girls, did we? But on the face of it he seemed just a perfectly normal, friendly young man.”
“Did you see Carly on the night she died?”
Vera gave a sad smile. “Yes. She was buzzing around this house, getting ready. Worrying about her hair and her make-up. She looked like a film star. I was so proud of her.”
“Where was she going?”
“To meet David Collins,” Vera said. “They were going away for the weekend. To Ireland, I think. They had ferry tickets booked.”
“And was she seeing anyone else at this time?”
Vera looked cross for a moment. “No,” she said. “I told the police at the time. There was nobody else but they kept talking about ‘clients’ and how Collins was jealous. My daughter didn’t have ‘clients’ and she didn’t two-time anyone.”
Kath chewed the end of her pen for a moment. “So, you’re saying that the police came to the investigation with their minds made up about Carly.”
“I think they did,” Vera said. She rolled her eyes. “It was always the case. Still is, isn’t it? A young woman goes out and gets attacked and it’s her own fault. Her skirt was too short, her heels were too high, she’d been drinking, she was asking for it. Because my Carly wore a mini dress and high heels, they decided she was a… a… prostitute. And then they worked from there.”
Kath nodded. Carly’s mother mightn’t be able to think badly of her daughter, but Cryer felt guilty that she hadn’t questioned the assumption herself from the start. “Did Carly ever say anything about Collins having problems with work?”
Again, Vera shook her head. “Nope. All this stuff about him fiddling the books came out later. It does explain how he lived such a lavish lifestyle and I felt really sorry for his children…”
“Not his wife?”
“No. She was a monster by all accounts. We only heard later, of course, but his wife was cruel. Always nagging him and belittling him. Overly strict with the children. It all came out at the inquest. If you ask me, she pushed him away.”
Or maybe Mrs Collins was upset that he was spending all the housekeeping money on pretty little Carly Simmonds and her jet set lifestyle, Kath thought but she just nodded and made more notes. “And Carly had never said anything about Collins hurting her or being controlling?”
“No,” Vera replied. “You said that you were reviewing the case. Can you tell me why?”
“Just routine, really, Vera,” Kath lied. “Every now and then, we pick an old case and check it was investigated thoroughly. Do you have any pictures of Carly from back then?”
Vera’s eyes twinkled. “Of course I do,” she said and pointed a bony finger towards an old cupboard at the side of the chimney breast. “Open that door, there. It’s a bit stiff…” Kath did as she was asked and found herself crouching by the open cupboard. “Now,” Vera continued, “there’s a box of wine glasses, pull them out. And just behind them there’s a scrapbook. Careful how you handle it, it’s quite fragile.” Kath eased the scrapbook out of the cupboard, resisting the temptation to blow the dust off it. She brought it up and placed it on Vera’s knee.
“Here we are,” Vera said, opening the book. The first couple of pages were family events, weddings, her and her late husband’s Golden Wedding, school photos. Carly and Carol looked like typical little girls, ponytails, round faces, gappy teeth. Carly a couple of years older. But as they moved through the book, Kath watched Carly blossom into a bubbly-haired beauty and Carol fade into mousy obscurity beside her.
At fifteen, Carly made her Guide uniform look like a raunchy fashion statement whereas Carol still looked about seven. Soon, Carly dominated the book. Pictures of her on an advertisement for Browns of Chester where she worked, a photo of her with the Duke of Westminster. And then pages of pictures cut out of Cheshire Life showing Carly at the elbow of various well-to-do gentlemen, holding a glass of bubbly.
“Oh, she was always appearing in Cheshire Life,” Vera said. But Kath stared down at one picture of an older man. His hand snaked around Carly’s waist, grinning like a lottery winner at the camera.
“That’s Victor Hunt, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, dear,” Vera chirped. “They were an item for quite a while. Now he was a true gentleman. Are you alright, dear? You’ve gone a bit pale.”
Wednesday October 30th
CHAPTER 34
It didn’t seem possible but Victor Hunt looked even more frail than the last time Blake had seen him. It was understandable, though, considering the incident with Ken Thompson and the fact that counsellors had broken the news to him of his son’s murder the previous day. Staring vacantly at the wall of the private room he’d been moved to, Hunt didn’t even acknowledge Blake as he sat down on the chair next to the bed. DS Chinn stood, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Mr Hunt,” Blake said. “I’m sorry for this but we need to ask you a few questions. About your son. And other matters, too.”
“Of course you do,” Hunt said, not looking at Blake.
“Do you know of anyone who would want to harm Marcus?”
Hunt shook his head slowly. “Only one person and she’s long dead. Drucilla. She hated him with a passion. She would have happily killed him. I thought he was safe but she has a long reach, it seems.”
“With respect, Mr Hunt,” Blake said. “I don’t think we can blame Drucilla for your son’s death. It must have been someone with us, now. Have you any idea who it might be? Someone who wanted to get to you, perhaps?”
“That’s very possible, Detective Blake,” Hunt said. “But I have no idea who it could be. I’m very tired. I can feel my energy slipping away. It’ll all be over soon and that’ll be an end of it.”
“It’s come to light that Gary Archer didn’t kill Drucilla, sir,” Blake said, quietly. “Again, would you know anything about who paid him to make a false confession?”
Hunt swung his head round and fixed his stare on Blake. “Why would anyone admit to doing something so horrible? Even for money?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Blake said. “He said it was the only way he could see out of the predicament he put himself in. Plus he wanted to provide for his wife and daughter.”
“A noble sentiment,” Hunt snorted. “Tell me Mr Blake, you must see a
ll kinds of people in your line of work. Do you think we’re born innocent? Free of sin or blame?”
Blake shrugged. “I suppose I do.”
“So, for you, it’s all nurture? Nobody is born wicked? It’s experience that shapes the innocent?”
“I would say so, sir.”
Hunt gave a grunt and looked away again. “You told Kenneth Thompson that you had a daughter. Would you forgive her anything, Detective? I mean anything?”
“I’m not sure, sir. She’s no longer with us.”
Hunt seemed oblivious; lost in his own grief and torment. “But there comes a time when children are responsible for their actions. Do parents have to forgive everything?”
“I don’t think a parent ever stops loving their child, sir,” Blake said. Giving Vikki a sidelong glance.
“I suppose that, given your circumstances,” Hunt said, “it’s a hypothetical question for you.”
“Quite, sir,” Blake said, wondering if Hunt had meant to be so brutal. “Can I ask, sir, what was the nature of your relationship with Carly Simmonds?”
Hunt froze for a second and then relaxed. “We were lovers. We saw each other for a couple of years and we were very happy. I nearly proposed to her but she found another.”
“That would be David Collins?”
“Yes,” Hunt said. “She might have been better off if she stayed with me but somehow, I doubt it.”
“Did you speak to the police about your relationship with Miss Simmonds when they were investigating her murder?”
“I spoke to an Inspector Leech, I believe,” Hunt said. “I told him my whereabouts on the night of the murder and he was satisfied. Then, if I recall, Collins killed himself and left a note confessing to the crime.”
“You had no feelings for Carly once you’d separated?” Blake asked.
“Of course I did, Blake. I’m not inhuman. But I acknowledged that she needed a different kind of man. She made an unfortunate choice, it would seem.”
“And how did Drucilla get mixed up in all of this?”
Hunt narrowed his eyes. “How do you mean? She wasn’t anything to do with Carly. She was investigating Collins and his extravagant lifestyle. I knew nothing about it until she brought me papers from my office and showed me how he was fiddling the books. If he hadn’t killed himself, I would have dealt with it myself; sacked the man and got the debt collectors to retrieve what they could. I wouldn’t have involved the police.”
“But you did notify the police,” Blake said. “Didn’t you?”
“No. Drucilla notified them. She dragged us into the papers with her glory hunting and, to be frank, I could have done without it. We had words about that but she went ahead and carried on hanging around with that idiot Gerald Rees.”
“And of course, then she solved the Stephen Bradshaw case. Getting Cameron Lock convicted,” Blake said.
“We weren’t aware that you owned the Lock’s house, sir,” DS Chinn said. “That must have been embarrassing; having a killer as a tenant.”
“Death follows me like a shadow,” Hunt said. “It’s not embarrassing. It’s tragic. I’m getting weary, now, detectives. I want to grieve for my son in peace.”
“We have a witness that says he saw Drucilla entering the house after Josie Lock’s death…”
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Hunt said, massaging his temples. “She was probably trying to solve that case too. My daughter craved attention, Mr Blake. Any kind of attention, good or bad. That was my fault. Don’t get me wrong, I loved her and she could be loving back but there was a wildness in her that couldn’t be tamed. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll have to insist that you leave. I am very tired. It has been the worst kind of day.”
Blake could see his own frustration mirrored in Vikki's face as they strode across the Hospice carpark. “He’s holding something back,” she said. “He knows something and he won’t tell us.”
“He’s involved with Simmonds, he’s involved with the Lock case,” Blake murmured as they drove back to the station. “Always in the background.”
“Suppose he killed Simmonds out of jealousy,” Vikki said, “and just wanted to get rid of Josie Lock as a tenant?”
“I could see him killing out of jealousy. But he only had to evict Josie Lock. I imagine the Locks weren’t popular in the area. And anyway. Once she was dead he would have rented the house out again. But he left it to rot, which is strange in itself.”
Back at the Incident Room, Manikas and Kinnear were waiting eagerly for Blake and Chinn. “What’s up with you two?” Blake said. “You look like you’re going to wet yourselves.”
“We did some digging, sir,” Kinnear said. “And it turns out that Fiona James, the owner of the court shoes, committed suicide after her son’s murder.”
“Her son was Stephen Bradshaw,” Manikas added.
“Right,” Blake said, a frown creasing his forehead.
Manikas, opened up a file. “So we found some old news cuttings about the suicide. Apparently, she threw herself off a footbridge onto the A41 in front of a lorry.”
“Okay, that’s sad but…”
Kinnear held up the paper. “Look at the headline, sir: ‘Tragic Mum Walks Barefoot to her Death.’ Fiona James wasn’t wearing shoes when she died.”
CHAPTER 35
The fact that Fiona James had walked barefoot from her home to a nearby footbridge in the middle of the night may not necessarily have been that much of a revelation on its own. But as Blake read the paper clipping, his blood ran cold. “An eye witness, Drucilla Hunt, had been driving past and stopped her car but was too late to intervene. ‘It was so tragic,’ she said. ‘Had I been there a few seconds earlier, I could have stopped her. I feel responsible.’ My God,” Blake muttered to himself.
“Read on,” Manikas said.
“‘In a bizarre twist, Hunt recognised Miss James as a member of her father’s domestic staff. Fiona James worked as a cleaner at the home of Victor Hunt for several years. ‘The family is very upset by the sad news,’ Drucilla added. ‘She was a much loved and valued member of the household team. Fiona will always be in our thoughts.’ Friends report that Fiona James had been depressed for some time after the murder of her son Stephen Bradshaw…’ Didn’t anyone think it was even slightly fishy that Drucilla Hunt just happened to be driving past in the middle of the night and saw someone she knew?”
“What was it her father said? She craved any kind of attention?” Chinn said. “Do you think she knew James was going to kill herself and followed the poor woman?”
“I think you’re being charitable there, Vikki," Blake said. “I’m beginning to think Drucilla Hunt was capable of a whole lot more.” He turned to Kinnear and Manikas. “Well done, you two. Do a bit of digging. Find anyone who knew Fiona James. Let’s get a full picture of her links to the Hunt family.”
“We’re onto it, sir,” Kinnear said. “We’ve found the name of Stephen Bradshaw’s father. Thought he might be worth talking to.”
“Great. Vikki, can you go back to the charity shop and see if there’s any way we can figure out where those boxes came from? I know we’ve asked but a second look might just jog someone’s memory. I’m going to talk to Gerald Rees again.”
“Right, sir,” Vikki Chinn said. She gave him an enquiring glance.
Blake raised his eyebrows and then looked over at the growing mountain of paperwork on his desk. “That’s me for the rest of the day, Chinn. If I don’t tackle that lot, I’ll need crampons to get the top files.”
◆◆◆
Walking through Bromborough from the carpark to the charity shop, it struck Chinn that the vast majority of people she passed wouldn’t have a clue what went on in their local community. The weirdness and downright nastiness that she was confronted with everyday depressed her sometimes. The thought that such darkness could lurk under a veneer of normality would drive her mad if she didn’t acknowledge that there must be acts that contradicted this pattern. For every crime or callous cr
uelty she encountered, there were small acts of kindness and love shown between family, friends and neighbours every day.
The charity shop was a good example of that; people giving up their time to support the hospice. That’s how Chinn liked to frame the world, anyway. She knew a few people on the force who viewed whole swathes of the population as scum but she couldn’t do that. The revelations of this case shook her faith in humanity, though, it had to be said.
At the hospice shop, Jamie stood at his post, larger than life and twice as cheerful. “Shall I wrap that for you, love, or do want to wear it now?” he said to an old woman carrying a flowery dress from the clothes section. “You goin’ to seduce your fancy man, tonight?”
The old lady gave a shrieking laugh and draped the dress over the counter. “Give over, Jamie,” she said, giggling like a schoolgirl. “It’s for the British Legion on Friday.”
“What? All of them? Ooh, you saucy minx!” he said, giving her a theatrical wink. “Well, I think you’ll be the belle of the ball. Or is it bingo on Friday?”
The old woman left chuckling and Jamie turned to Chinn, who held up her warrant card. His face fell slightly. “How can I help?”
“Could I have a look round, Jamie?” Chinn said. “I’m trying to see if there’s a way we can work out where those boxes came from. I just want to get my head round how this place works. You know, in case there’s something we’ve missed.”
Jamie pulled a face. “Be my guest,” he said. “Natalie isn’t around but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind. Any queries, just ask.”
“Natalie Murphy? Is she normally off?”
“Never,” Jamie said. “But she’s hardly been back since last week when all this kicked off. Her mum didn’t do very well after that choking fit apparently.”
“I see,” Chinn said. “Can I?” She pointed to the back of the shop and the sorting room.