“Right.” She stood up and grabbed her bag. “We’ll reconvene here, late afternoon. Let me know if there’s anything interesting in the meantime.”
“Boss.”
Two hours later, Lesley was skirting the south of Bristol on the A370. She’d let Johnny drive, glad of some rest. The bed in her rented house was bloody uncomfortable.
“Which part of Bristol does she live in?” she asked.
“Clifton. I’ve got it on the satnav.”
“Already?”
“I programmed it in when we left the office, boss.”
She peered at the satnav screen. “You’ll have to show me how to work that thing, when we’re done here. It seems to always want to send me to Dundee.”
He grinned. “It’s just tech, boss. If you’re confident with it, it’ll do as it’s told.”
She grunted. They turned a bend and followed a river. The bridge appeared ahead, way over their heads.
“Clifton Suspension Bridge,” Johnny said.
“I know it well,” Lesley replied. “Studied Isambard Kingdom Brunel at school.”
She waited for him to make a quip about how long ago that would have been. Forty-six wasn’t all that old. Young enough to have taken GCSEs and not O levels.
He turned right then left then right again and brought them to a street of grand if slightly unkempt Victorian houses.
“Nice,” she said.
“Bristol’s got one of the priciest housing markets in the country,” Johnny said. “Outside London. I guess our victim was worth a penny or two.”
“Or his wife is.”
They found a parking space and walked to the Weathertons’ house. A curtain shifted in the bay window next door and an elderly man looked out.
The door opened to reveal a red-faced woman with mid-length brown hair and an air of solidity. She was about as far removed from Laila Ford as it was possible to get. She looked a few years younger than Lesley, which made her a few years older than her husband.
“Mrs Weatherton?”
“Susan, please. Come in.” She stared at the bay window next door and the curtain flicked closed.
Lesley showed her ID. “DCI Clarke, this is DC Chiles.”
“I was expecting you. Please, come in.”
They followed the woman through a dark hallway into a large kitchen towards the back of the house. Dirty dishes littered the worktops and there were clothes draped over chairs.
“I’m sorry, it’s not normally like this.” Susan picked up a child’s t-shirt from the back of a chair and folded it.
“You don’t need to tidy up on our account,” said Johnny. Susan put the folded t-shirt on the table.
A slender woman with a blonde bob and the same angular nose as Susan appeared in the doorway. She looked at the two detectives and then at Susan. “Everything OK?”
“Thanks, Fi,” Susan said. She looked at Lesley. “This is Fiona, my sister. I know you sent a liaison officer, but I’d rather have someone I know...”
“The Family Liaison Officer can help keep you informed of progress on the investigation,” Lesley said. “It’s a good idea not to send them away.”
What she didn’t say was that the FLO was also the investigating team’s eyes and ears in the family home. They could report back on suspicious behaviour.
“If I have to...”
“It’s not an obligation,” Lesley said. “But it is advisable.”
“OK.” Susan grabbed another t-shirt from a second chair.
“I’ll do that,” said Fiona. “You need to talk to these officers. I’ll put the kettle on.” She guided her sister into the now-empty chair.
Susan lowered herself into the chair. The redness in her cheeks had gone, replaced by a blanched pallor. Lesley and Johnny took the chairs opposite her, ignoring the washing.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us today,” Lesley said. “I understand this can’t be easy for you.”
“I don’t imagine I have much choice,” said Susan.
Lesley exchanged a glance with Johnny. Hostile witness?
“You do, Susan. You’re not under caution and we have no reason to compel you to talk to us. But as I’m sure you can imagine, it’s very helpful for the investigation into your husband’s death.”
“His murder,” Susan muttered.
Lesley nodded. “His murder.”
Fiona put a tray holding a teapot and mugs on the table. She took a seat next to her sister. “Help yourselves.”
Lesley indicated to Johnny, who poured a cup for her. He then poured for Susan and Fiona and finally himself. Lesley spooned sugar into her tea, watching the two sisters.
“Can you tell us when you last saw Archie?”
Susan cupped her hands around her mug. “Just over two weeks ago. He came home for the weekend.”
“Did he do that most weekends?”
A shrug. “Depended.”
“On what?”
Susan sighed. She looked Lesley in the eye. “On whether he had a woman on the go in the dig team.”
Johnny coughed, his tea going down the wrong way. Fiona frowned at him. She hadn’t blinked when her sister had mentioned Archie’s affairs.
“Did he make a habit of sleeping with the women he worked with?” Lesley asked.
“Thank you for that.” Susan nodded. “Not mincing words. Archie liked to shag younger women, and his job gave him ample opportunity.” She grabbed a tissue from a box on the table and blew her nose.
“Always younger women?” Lesley asked.
“Yes.”
Fiona put a hand over her sister’s. Susan chewed her bottom lip.
“Students?” Lesley asked.
“Not to my knowledge. He knew that would get him fired. But there were often women in their twenties in his teams. Archaeology has only properly opened up to female excavators in the last fifteen years or so.”
“As far as you knew, was there a woman at the Corfe Castle dig?”
“Crystal Spiers was in charge. I met her a couple of times, didn’t like her.”
“Any other women?”
“You’re talking about Laila. I don’t know her surname.”
“Laila Ford,” Johnny said.
“I don’t care what her surname was. Archie said she was too young for him – as if that ever stopped him. He denied being involved with her.”
Susan gulped her tea. Lesley waited for her to continue.
“But I know he was lying,” Susan said.
Fiona’s grip tightened on her arm. “You don’t need to worry about that any more.”
Susan’s hand jolted but her sister kept hold of it. Lesley leaned back.
“How did you know he was lying?”
“Because she told me.” Susan looked up and into Lesley’s face.
“Who told you?”
“Laila.”
Johnny’s pen stopped moving across his pad. Lesley leaned forwards. “Laila told you about her relationship with your husband?”
“I thought you weren’t going to do that. She didn’t have a relationship with him. She’d only been on site for five weeks. She was fucking him, the little bitch.”
Fiona’s hand left her sister’s. Susan picked up her own hand and shook it out.
“When did Laila tell you?” Lesley asked.
Susan’s hand came to rest on the table. “She called me. On my mobile. Said I could forget about him, he was hers now.”
“When did this happen?”
Susan shifted position. Fiona let out a long sigh and turned to face her sister. She leaned in and muttered in Susan’s ear.
Susan raised a hand to bat her away. “Fiona says I should retain a solicitor.”
Fiona pulled a business card out of her pocket and placed it on the table. “I’m a corporate lawyer. I can’t represent Susan in this. But I believe this interview should stop now.”
“Why?” Johnny asked. Lesley put out a hand to silence him.
“Susan?” she asked. The woma
n had let them in. She’d given them tea. She’d volunteered information. “Do you want to tell me when Laila told you about her and Archie?”
Susan blinked back at her, her body very still.
“Suze…” Fiona said, her voice low.
Susan nodded at Lesley. “It was last Thursday. She rang me and told me all about her relationship with my husband on Thursday.” She emphasised “relationship,” enunciating every syllable clearly.
Fiona stood up. “Susan, shut up. Officers, I’d like you to leave.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dennis knocked on the door of the archaeological team’s cottage. Mike was in the Greyhound, tracking down punters who’d been there on Saturday morning. PC Abbott, thank God, was out somewhere doing whatever uniformed officers were supposed to be doing these days.
Laila answered the door. “Oh. Hello again.”
He gave her a dry smile. “Just a couple more questions. Won’t keep you long.”
“Of course. I’m the only one in. Crystal and Patrick are down at the dig site. I should be there but…”
Dennis surveyed the room. A pot of tea sat on the side table and another plate of toast was on the sofa. Laila wore pyjamas and a dressing gown. At half past nine in the morning.
He didn’t bother sitting down. “I just need to ask you where you were on Saturday, between nine am and two pm.”
Her open expression dropped. “You’ve done the post-mortem.”
“We have.” Not that he was about to tell her anything about it. That kind of information was reserved for the victim’s wife. “Can you answer the question please?”
“Yes.” She looked away towards the kitchen. “Well, I was here until about ten. So were the others, well Crystal at least. She was down here when I went out.”
“What time was that?”
“A bit before ten, I think.”
“And you were with her before that?”
“I was upstairs, in my room.”
He took out his notepad. “So where did you go after that?”
“I went to the Pink Goat café for breakfast. It’s on the way to the castle.”
“Anyone see you there?”
“My friend Caz works there.”
“Caz?”
“Karen Dawes. She was there the whole time. She had her break, we chatted, then I had another pot of tea and read a book.”
“What time did you leave the cafe’?”
“About half twelve. It was getting busy, I thought I’d better give them the table back.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I came back here. I was… I was tired. I wrote a few emails, watched a film.”
“What film?”
“I don’t remember. It was on Netflix.”
“Was anybody else here?”
“Patrick got in at around two. Crystal was later than that. Five, I think.”
“So you were alone from twelve thirty till two.”
“I was here. I wasn’t out killing Archie. Look at me, d’you think I could have overpowered him?”
“Miss Ford, did Archie take sleeping tablets?”
She shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
“Do you?”
“God, no.”
“Anyone else in the house?”
“I wouldn’t know. I don’t think so.”
“We can check GP records, you know.”
“I’m telling the truth.” She looked like she might cry. Dennis had come across plenty of women who could do that. Turn on the tears, for effect.
“Would you consent to a forensic search of your room?”
She tensed. “Why? You don’t think he was killed here?”
“You said that Patrick Donnelly was searching through Archie’s things. We want to know if Mr Weatherton was taking sleeping pills. Or hiding anything.”
“Like I said, he was—”
He eyed her. “Do you consent, or not?”
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it.
Laila glanced at it. “Maybe you need to get that.”
“It can wait. Do you consent to a search?”
“Yes. I consent.” She sat on the sofa, tipping the toast to the floor. “When?”
“I’m going to ask you not to go into your room again until we’ve searched it. The CSIs are waiting nearby.”
She was holding herself very still, as if she didn’t want to reveal her true feelings. “I’ll go out.”
“It’s alright. You stay down here, with me. Put the kettle on, maybe.”
“Of course.” She went to the kitchen. He grabbed his phone to call Gail Hansford. There was a voicemail from the DCI.
“Dennis, where are you? Call me, we’ve got new information about Laila.”
He fired off a quick text to Gail – Consent given. Ready for you – and dialled the boss.
“Dennis, where are you?”
Laila clattered around the kitchen. She was pretending to make enough noise so she wouldn’t hear him. He knew better than to trust that.
“I’m at the cottage in Corfe Castle. Laila Ford is in the next room.”
“Good. I need you to ask her about Susan Weatherton.”
“What about her?”
“According to her, Laila knew Archie was married. She called Susan on Thursday last week.”
“What did she say to her?”
“Susan’s sister’s a lawyer. She shut the conversation down before we were able to get anything else. But Laila did apparently tell Susan she was having an affair with Archie.”
Dennis shifted position to get a better view of Laila, who was pouring hot water into a teapot. He thought of the girl’s reaction when they’d told her Archie was married. The apparent shock.
“I know what you’re thinking, Dennis.”
He cupped his hand around the phone and edged towards the door. “She’s a liar. A very convincing one.”
“Assuming Susan Weatherton isn’t the one who’s lying.”
“You think a grieving widow would lie about something like that?”
“I don’t think anything, Dennis. Talk to Laila, though. See if you can find out what the truth is. And if she did know, why did she call his wife?”
“Shouldn’t we do that under caution?”
“I don’t think we’re quite there yet. How’s her alibi?”
“Patchy.”
“OK. Check out the alibi, then call me back. We’ll decide whether she needs to be cautioned once we know what else we’ve got.”
“Boss.” He hung up as Laila returned with the teapot. There was a knock on the door behind him.
He threw it open. “Gail.”
“Sarge.” Gail was with her ridiculously tall colleague. “Where d’you want us?”
“Front bedroom, upstairs. Make sure she doesn’t leave.”
“Isn’t that your job?”
“I need to speak to a witness.” He squeezed between the two CSIs and hurried towards the café.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“What was all that about?” Susan asked as Fiona reappeared in the kitchen. Her sister had shown the detectives out, anxious for Susan not to answer any more questions.
“I’m sorry, Suze. Why don’t you sit down?”
Susan slammed the cutlery drawer shut. Her sister was four years younger, married without children. She always made Susan feel dowdy and slow. Today had been no different.
“I don’t need to sit down. Just tell me.”
Fiona sat at the battered pine table. The detectives’ half-finished mugs of tea were still cooling.
“You found out Archie was having an affair on Thursday, and he died on Saturday. They’ll have you pegged as a suspect.”
“That’s ridiculous. He died in a field in Dorset.”
“You’ll need to prove where you were on Saturday. Provide an alibi.”
“That’s easy enough.” Susan leaned against the worktop, her mind fuzzy. “I went shopping with Millie.”
�
��Did anyone see you? Do you have receipts?”
Susan joined her sister at the table. “Fi, I know when I called you on Friday morning I said I’d bloody kill him. But you do know I didn’t mean it, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. But you sent me a text, too. Thursday night, remember?”
Susan’s chest hollowed out. “But I didn’t...”
“I know that, and you know that. But the police don’t know you. They—”
“They’ll find out that I put up with Archie’s philandering for ten years and never did anything about it. Why would that change now?”
“You know why.”
Susan stared at her sister across the table. “What do you take me for?”
Fiona leaned in. “I don’t take you for anything. I’m not saying I think you did it, and you know I’m not.” She cleared her throat. “But they’ll be asking you for a solid alibi. And I imagine they’ll ask Tony, too.”
Susan’s heart picked up pace. “They don’t know about Tony.”
“They’ll find out. Don’t hide it from them, Suze. Be honest with them. You start lying, and they won’t believe anything you say.” She pulled out her phone. “I’ve got a colleague, a criminal law specialist. I’ll call her.”
Susan’s mouth was dry. “I don’t need a lawyer.”
“Only guilty people need lawyers, that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? But the truth is, you need one more if you’re innocent.”
“If?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth.” Fiona raised a finger to silence her. “Fiona Reynolds here, for Jacinta Burke. Thanks.”
Fiona put her hand over the phone. “And call Tony. Tell him Archie’s dead, and that you can’t see him for a while. Nothing more.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Pink Goat was a homely double-fronted cafe almost exactly halfway between the archaeologists’ cottage and the castle. A bell over the door clattered as Dennis entered.
All eight tables were taken, mainly by middle-aged to elderly holidaymakers. One table held a young family with a toddler who slammed into Dennis’s legs as he approached the counter.
“Charlie! I’m so sorry. He’s a bit exuberant today.” The child’s father grabbed his son by the hand and gave Dennis an apologetic grin.
The Corfe Castle Murders (Dorset Crime Book 1) Page 10