by Helen Oliver
Lyn said nervously, “Should we go in the front room?”
“Fine,” Cally said. She followed Lyn, and made for an armchair with its back to the window. “All right if I sit here?”
Lyn nodded. “It’s not bad, that chair,” she said and sat opposite on a well-worn sofa. “If that cushion gets in your way, push it off. Pete and our Marie complain I’ve too many cushions.”
“And Marie is your…?”
“Eldest. Works at Shop-A-While.”
Cally leaned forward, took out her notebook. “You wanted to talk to me.”
“Yesterday, you said if I thought of owt…”
“And have you?”
She nodded. “To be honest that’s what we were arguing about.”
“Go on.”
“I should have said at the time.” Lyn moistened her lips. “The belt were mine. Pete gave it me.”
“Which belt?”
“Belt round Mrs Parsons’s neck.” She fiddled with the corner of a cushion. “It weren’t my sort of thing. I wondered at the time why he didn’t give it to our Marie. Or even Donna.”
“Why d’you think he didn’t?”
“Perhaps he thought I’d change. Turn into someone who liked that sort of thing.”
Fingering her pen, Cally asked, “Have you any idea how the belt ended up where you sadly saw it yesterday?”
“I gave it to Mrs Parsons.”
Cally’s pen hovered over the page. “Please think very carefully, Mrs Worsnop. I’m not trying to trip you up.”
Lyn said, “I could’ve been more honest yesterday.”
“You were in shock.”
“That’s what I keep telling meself.”
Cally nodded slowly. “Tell me how you came to give the belt to Mrs Parsons.”
Lyn thought for a moment. “I wore it to work one day, to please Pete, and she admired it.”
“Did she suggest she wished it was hers?”
“Not in so many words. But I said she could have it.” She swallowed hard. “She wanted to pay me for it, but I said no. Then she asked if Pete would mind, and I said I reckoned he’d gone off it. I said it would look good on her.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “But not like yesterday.”
Cally said, “I know how upsetting this is for you, Mrs Worsnop.” She waited while Lyn blew her nose. “Did Mrs Parsons wear it much?”
“She wore it to a fancy dress party.”
“Really?”
“It were some sort o’ ’sixties thing. It would’ve looked right nice on her. She were a lot slimmer than me.”
Cally understood Lyn’s lapse: she’d seen for herself the horrific sight that had confronted this poor woman. Where, she wondered, had the belt been before it squeezed the life out of her employer? She let moments go by. “It occurred to me you might know a little about Mrs Parsons’s clients.”
Lyn frowned. “She were always discreet, were Mrs Parsons.”
“They just came and went?”
“Aye. Sometimes there were quite a bit o’ laughing. They inclined to be cheerful when they left. I think they felt that much better.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “She were going to give me a treatment for me birthday. I bought meself a pair o’ lacy knickers. Primark. I wouldn’t have wanted her seeing me in me baggy old things.” She wiped her eyes, took a breath. “There were summat a week or two back.”
“Something different?”
“A client were sobbing.”
“Do you know who this was?”
Lyn cleared her throat. “The appointments book were lying open. I were dusting study and happened to notice it were Mrs Marsh.”
Good – someone to talk to. “Was she a regular client?”
“She were, aye, and lately, from what I gathered, she’d been coming more often.”
Cally underlined ‘Marsh’. “By the way,” she said, “Eddie has a new home. The mother of one of our PCs had her cat put down – eighteen apparently – and was looking for another. Seems he settled in straight away.” She chuckled. “No need to put butter on his paws.”
Tears ran down Lyn’s face. “If Mrs Parsons is up there she’ll be that happy.”
Cally said gently, “No need to cry, then.” She took a slow breath. “Back to business, I’ll need a word with your husband. We can chat in here.”
“I’ll get him.”
Cally rose quickly. “Don’t worry, I’ll ask him. Perhaps we can have a cup of tea together afterwards?” She crossed the hallway into the kitchen and went into the garden. Head down, pushing the lawnmower, Pete didn’t hear her until she was beside him. “Mr Worsnop?”
“Jesus – you made me jump!” He halted the mower. “Pardon my French.”
“Sorry about that. I wonder if we can chat indoors.”
He clutched the mower handle. “I ought to finish this.”
“I won’t keep you long.”
“Been telling you all sorts, has she?”
“Come in and we’ll talk.”
Inside, Cally returned to the same chair, and Worsnop – throwing two cushions on the floor – took his wife’s place on the sofa. “I only just found out about bloomin’ belt.”
“It must have come as a shock.”
“You can say that again.”
“Tell me a little bit about it, Mr Worsnop. The belt.”
Worsnop shrugged. “You know as much as me.”
Cally said, “I hardly think so, I’ve only seen it once, and I don’t need to remind you where that was.”
Worsnop looked at the fireplace, at the cushions on the floor: anywhere rather than at Cally. “Where, for instance,” she asked, “did you get it?”
He screwed his face into a slow frown. “If I remember right, it were in a pub.”
“Which pub would that be?”
He pulled back his lips until the tendons on his neck stood out like twigs. “It could’ve been Royal Oak. Then again, it mighta been Red Cat.”
“But you’re not totally sure?” She made notes, looked up at him. “Try to remember, Mr Worsnop. It’s best not to leave gaps.”
“Gaps in what?”
“Our murder enquiries.”
He blinked. “It were probably Red Cat.”
“Okay. Did you buy the belt in The Red Cat?”
“How d’you mean?”
She let him know she was losing patience. “I mean, did you buy it, or were you given it?”
“You don’t get much given in Red Cat.”
“So you bought it.”
“Aye.”
“Who did you buy it from?”
“I can’t remember. And that’s the God’s honest truth.”
Moments passed. “Are you in employment, Mr Worsnop?”
“Aye. AllHome DIY. Keeps body and soul together, like.”
“Are you a handy man yourself?”
“Not really. Don’t matter though. Punters know what they want.”
Cally made as if studying her notes. “Given more time, Mr Worsnop, is it possible you’d remember who sold you the belt?”
Pete’s upper lip twitched. “You know what it’s like in pubs. Crowded, lots o’ folk. Noise.”
“On the other hand it’s not an everyday occurrence, buying your wife a sexy-looking gift.”
Cally stood up, slipped her notebook into her bag. “I’ll leave it with you. You go on racking you brains and if you remember anyone: the landlord, a barmaid, a friend of a friend. Just get in touch.”
“I didn’t do owt.”
“Think on about the belt, Mr Worsnop. You can see my point, can’t you? I need to know everything about a belt you bought – possibly in The Red Cat – that ends up round your wife’s employer’s neck.” She gave a half smile. “Shall we see if Mrs Worsnop has brewed that pot of tea?”
9
DC Kylie Akpata’s wire basket contained names and details she’d compiled from April Parsons’s various lists. Some hard copy, others on the therapist’s computer: aromatherapy clients, personal contacts, ev
en a birthday book. She’d underlined a date in Mrs Parsons’s private diary about a Complementary Treatment Convention taking place in Bath, and added a contact telephone number. Hammond and Cally’s office was empty and she placed the basket next to the boss’s computer.
*
Following a slightly strained meeting with Pat Kerridge, during which Hammond assured her that, in April Parsons’s case no stone was being left unturned, he sat down and examined Akpata’s lists. He ticked her note of Sykes’s address: 6a Back Oak Street, Leeds, plus the guy’s mobile number. Which he dialled. You have reached Russell Sykes’s phone. Please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you. “Hi, Mr Sykes, DCI Hammond, North Yorkshire Police. Please return my call.” He left two contact numbers: his mobile and Browbridge Police Station.
His phone buzzed. Smiling, he saw Cally on caller display. “What was Worsnop worrying about?” Nodding, he listened to her account of the belt. “What did you make of Pete Worsnop?”
“Deliberately obtuse,” she said. “Can’t give a straight answer. Something’s spooking him but I’m not sure what.”
“Could it be that Parsons’s death is too close to home?” he said, and added, “Motive?”
“Can’t imagine. Really hard to tell. What is it we say? You never know what goes on behind closed doors?”
He smiled to himself. “Yeah.” He paused. “Akpata’s left me one of her impeccable lists.” He ran his eye down the second page and gave Cally the Bath convention phone number. “Inform them their delegate won’t be coming.”
“I won’t give a reason?”
“No. Just dig about if it feels right.” He frowned: “My priority’s to find Sykes.”
“I need to talk to Harriet Bloom again,” Cally said. “See if she makes a habit of telling porkies.”
Hammond said, “Make that tomorrow.” He stood up. “I’m heading off now. I’ll call at PZ Motors first, then carry on and see if I can locate Sykes. His digs look to be marginally this side of Leeds.”
“You don’t need me, do you? My paper paperwork’s groaning.”
“No, you carry on.” He grinned to himself. “How did the jam tart go down last night?”
“Pretty well. It was delicious.”
He kept his tone light. “How’s Greg these days?”
“Oh, you know, about the same.”
*
Each vehicle at PZ Motors Ltd – ‘used car outlets all over the UK’ – had been cleaned, sprayed and/or polished to within an inch of its life. Reception, manned by a plump blonde, stood halfway down the showroom. Arranged in front of the floor-to-ceiling outer windows, four salesmen sat at larger than average desks: three currently with potential customers, the fourth talking hard into his phone.
Hammond approached the receptionist, showed his ID. “James Parsons. Is he here?”
The receptionist nodded towards the desk nearest the glass entrance doors. “He’s with a client at present.”
“That’s okay, I’ll wait.” He paused. “When do you close?”
“It’s late opening. Not till seven. Would you like a drink? There’s a coffee machine.”
Hammond noted a TV screen and group of easy chairs. “No thanks, I’ll grab a seat over there.”
Picking up a copy of Yorkshire Life, he chose a chair affording a view of James Parsons and his customer. Looking alternately from calculator to target, Parsons, round faced, tapped away at the keys. Hammond turned his magazine pages until he saw the customer produce a card and feed it in. Purchase accomplished, salesman and customer rose as one. Having shown the happy man the door, Parsons stopped as Hammond approached.
“James Parsons?”
Parsons stuck out a chubby hand. “What can I do for you?”
“DCI Hammond. Somewhere we can talk?”
Parsons said, “Just a moment,” and made for the desk in the far corner of the showroom. Excusing himself to the client, he said a few words to the salesman, clearly senior, who – after a glance in Hammond’s direction – nodded quickly. Hurrying back, Parsons said, “The meeting room’s free.”
Most of the space was taken up by a long table and ten chairs. Parsons pulled out two. “Please, take a seat.”
Hammond sat down. “First, Mr Parsons, let me say how very sorry I am for your loss.”
Parsons pulled in his chair. “I’m trying to come to terms with it.” He swallowed hard. “It was a dreadful shock.”
Ignoring the coming and going of motors outside, and the occasional splash on the window from a hose, Hammond said, “I have to ask you some questions. A few personal, for which I apologize in advance.” He took a breath, held it for a moment. “Have you any idea who would harm your mother? Who would want to kill her?”
Pain washed across Parsons’s baby face. “Absolutely none.”
“Give me a bit of background, Mr Parsons. From what I’ve gleaned so far, you and your sister led a settled family life until your parents’ marriage broke up.” He waited, holding Parsons’s gaze. “I have to confess to doing a bit of prying into your family background.”
Parsons cleared his throat. “So you know my parents divorced some time ago.” He shrugged. “Practically ancient history.”
“Even so, it must have been disruptive for you and your sister at the time.”
Parsons nodded. “I suppose it was harder for Lucy, she’s younger than me.” He paused. “I remember it being really upsetting when Dad split the scene…” Sighing, he added, “Must be the same for thousands of kids.”
Hammond let his eyes drift to a group of framed certificates before asking, “Did you and Lucy know ‘the other woman’? Families quite often seem to settle down, get to know – even grow fond of – a parent’s new partner.” He raised an eyebrow. “Was it like that for you two?”
“Not at first.”
“Eventually, though?”
“For some time I thought we did. Perhaps Lucy still feels the same.” Parsons hesitated, shook his head. “But it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t what we thought.”
Hammond wondered what it wasn’t like. “The other woman, were you told who she was?”
“I don’t think we wanted to know at first.” His jaw tightened, “Then Mum informed us she was Lucy’s godmother.”
“And who was she?”
“She still is. Mum’s friend Harriet Bloom.”
Hammond digested this and Parsons continued, “We’d always called her Auntie Harriet, but after a bit we dropped the ‘auntie’ because she hated it.”
“Did it not upset your mother, her friend and Lucy’s godmother, having an affair with your father?” This appeared to touch a nerve, and he added, “I’m sorry, this must be painful.”
Parsons gazed out the window, then re-focused on Hammond. “Mum was incredible. She had amazing powers of forgiveness. Like when I quit university; she didn’t hold it against me. Just said it was my life.” He pulled a face. “Dad was livid.”
“You were still young when your parents separated,” said Hammond. “You had a lot to contend with.”
“Recalling it makes me realize just how much.”
Hammond took out his notebook. “A bit of routine police work, Mr Parsons.” He smoothed a page. “Can you tell me where you were during the early hours of Tuesday 17th May?”
“That’s easy. I was in bed.”
“Can anyone verify that?”
Parsons gave a wobbly smile. “I wish.”
“So no one who can vouch for you.”
“No.” He took a deep breath. “I loved Mum.” His voice trembled. “For God’s sake find out who did this…” He blinked hard. “Having a name would be dreadful, but nothing can be worse than not knowing.”
Both men stood up. Hammond put out a hand, shook Parsons’s. “We’re doing everything we can.”
*
He wrote up his notes in the car. The Parsons’s family situation, and learning about Harriet Bloom, had taken him by surprise. Which of them, he wondered, had let
it go that stage further?
10
In the urban sense Back Oak Street, Leeds, was the back of beyond, and Hammond found himself reversing half a dozen times: giving way to harassed Asian traders loaded with end-of-day fruit and veg. Parking anywhere along Sykes’s street was impossible. The only solution was to go back to the main road, find a pub and park up. The Black Horse looked good and he slid between a Chelsea tractor and a Ford Fiesta. He cut the engine, twisted round to grab his jacket from the back seat and slipped it over his shoulders.
Once out of the car, he looked longingly at the saloon bar: at two couples pushing their way in. Knowing it was out of the question, he clicked the remote and thrust the glass of Theakston’s to where it belonged. The back of his mind.
It was steeply downhill to Sykes’s flat, and his knees felt the strain as he made for Back Oak Street. How long can it have been, since any form of oak grew in these mean streets?
Numbering on front doors didn’t make much sense, but by a process of elimination he found 6a. The houses, dark on his side and in full late sun opposite, were built of the ubiquitous Leeds red brick and opened straight onto the narrow pavement. There were five doorbells: ‘Grayson/Sykes’ in faded ballpoint at Number Three. Which he pressed. No response. He took out his phone, dialled Sykes’s mobile and pressed his ear to the frosted glass panel in the door. Dead silence. Eeeny-meeny-miney-mo, and he pressed Number 2. Footsteps approached.
An attractive girl, dark skinned, wet hair wrapped in a red towel, smiled a perfect smile. “Can I help you?”
Hammond grinned back. “I’m sorry to trouble you.” He showed her his ID. “I’m looking for Mr Russell Sykes. Flat 3.”
She looked worried. “Oh, dear.” Though halting, her English was precise. “I have not seen Russ today.” She straightened the towel and inclined her head towards the floor above. She smiled. “He has a room-mate who was on duty last night. He might still be asleep.”
“Not the best time, then.”
“If you are police he will see you.”
He smiled. “Thank you.”
She straightened the towel. “I am sorry not to be more hospitable.”
Heading for the stairs, he said, “You’ve been extremely helpful.”