by Helen Oliver
“It’s okay, Mal.”
“No. I’m sorry to tell you someone’s had an argument with your Focus.”
“That’s all I need.”
“Nothing too serious, but your rear reg. plate needs straightening out. You can’t drive it as it is.” He came into the room. “Shall I organize something, or do you want to take it to your own garage?”
“I’ll use mine. D B Motors.” She fished in her bag, took a card from her wallet. “Would you mind asking Mick to pick it up? I’ll beg a lift home off the boss.”
Mal Cope took the card. “No probs.”
“Thanks, I owe you.” She paused. “So who did the damage?”
“A PCSO. She’s in a right state. Only been with us a couple of weeks.”
“Tell her I’ll have her guts for garters.”
Mal held back a grin. “Been that sort of day, has it?”
Cally grinned. “Tell her not to worry. I’ll see her in the morning.”
Cope left, Cally dialled Hammond and they discussed the likelihood, or otherwise, of the photograph in the Herald being the lead they were hoping for. Like Cally, Hammond wondered if the woman’s proximity to Jez Hemsworth had any bearing on the case. It could be a coincidence, of course. Or was something useful coming to light? With the woman probably not being Angie Marsh, they wouldn’t need her to prove she hadn’t called at Spring House. However, it did nothing to prove that David Marsh remained tucked up in bed after his drive back from Edinburgh.
They agreed, for the umpteenth time, that April Parsons must have known her killer. Although the post-mortem revealed more than an average evening’s alcohol intake, there were no signs of drugs, and there was still no reason to think she’d been forced onto the treatment table against her will.
But who would want her dead? Discussing things with Hammond on the phone made Cally realize it was sometimes better not being face to face. There wasn’t the distraction of focusing on the other person; which was the exact opposite of questioning a witness or suspect, where the blink of an eye, or scratch of an ear, could say so much.
She mentioned her car to Hammond. “A PCSO bumped into it in the carpark. I suppose you wouldn’t be able to give me a lift home.”
She heard the smile in his voice. “You suppose wrongly. Of course I will.”
“I thought you might be doing something.”
“Well, I’m not, so I’ll pick you up in, say, twenty-five. Okay?”
Cally called home “Hi, Eileen. A favour…”
“Is everything all right?”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed. To be precise, my car.” She could hear Lou in the background. “Has that kid looked at her spellings?”
Eileen laughed. “I wonder you can’t hear her.”
“I can.”
“Her dad’s going through them with her.” She paused. “What’s the favour?”
“The boss is driving me home. It’d be great if he could stay for something to eat.”
“Of course he can, love.”
“You’re a star.”
25
There’d been something draining about the funeral. Until she relaxed in the BMW, Cally hadn’t realized how tired she was.
Hammond said. “Not far now?”
Why was she nervous? “Another four or five minutes.”
He said, “Didn’t we pass your house when we were on the Otley job? Ages ago, I know.”
“Of course we did,” she said, and added lightly, “how could I forget the Otley job?”
Hammond glanced at her. “Are you sure this is all right?”
“What?”
“Me barging in for a meal.”
“You’re not barging in, you’re invited. Anyway, you haven’t seen the kids for ages. Not since the station open day. You’ll notice a difference.” She straightened up. “Next right.”
“Okay.”
Hammond slowed as they approached the house. Cally reached for her case in the passenger well. “You can park on the drive.”
“Right.” Hammond swung round in front of the garage.
Within seconds the front door opened. Lou tumbled out, followed by Tom who, though his eyes were alight at the BMW, didn’t rush.
Hammond got out, said, “Hi,” to the kids and came round to open the passenger door for Cally.
Head on one side, Lou said, “This is a big car.”
Hammond chuckled. “It means I can put a lot in it.”
Tom looked serious. “I bet you have a pretty spacious boot.”
Smiling at the interchange, Cally said, “Big car, big boot.”
Hammond glanced down at Tom. “Would you like to see inside? The boot, I mean.”
“Yes, please.”
Hammond raised the door to the boot and Tom leaned in to examine the interior. Lou hurried forward. “Wow – flowers!”
Hammond said, “My word. I wonder how they got there.” and reached for the over-sized bouquet in shiny paper. “These are for your nana.”
Lou said, “She adores flowers.”
Cally said quietly. “You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to,” he said, and stood aside for Cally to lead the way indoors.
Eileen came from the kitchen, and Cally said, “Eileen, this is Steve.” Hammond held out the flowers. “Good gracious, are those for me?”
Lou said, “They are for you. He said so.”
“Thank you, they’re gorgeous. I’ll put them in water for now and arrange them later.”
Cally dumped her briefcase at the bottom of the stairs. “Where’s Greg?”
Eileen said brightly, “In the living room.” She turned to Hammond. “I think he was wondering if you’d like a beer.”
Cally called, “Greg!” and pushed open the living room door. She turned to Hammond, “Or perhaps you’d prefer lager?”
Hammond said, “Either would be great.” He watched Cally’s conscious effort to relax her shoulders, and for a moment caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror, doing the same. He ran a hand through his hair.
Cally turned back. “Steve, come and meet Greg.”
He followed her into the room where Greg stood, silhouetted in front of the French doors. Hammond had had a picture in his mind, but the sun behind the other man made it hard to see if his idea of this ex-serviceman, about his own height, was anywhere near what he’d imagined. Greg came forward, put out a hand. “Nice to meet you. I was in the garden, didn’t hear you arrive.” Hammond took his hand. No, he was nothing like. If he wasn’t so thin in the face, gaunt almost, he’d have movie-star good looks.
Hammond said, “Perfect weather for the garden. I expect the rain was welcome.”
“You like gardens?”
Hammond laughed. “If they’re someone else’s.”
Cally said, “Sort yourselves out with drinks. I’m popping upstairs to change.”
Tom walked in, turned to his dad. “Mr Hammond’s got a BMW.”
Hammond grinned. “Not a very new one.”
Tom asked, “Shall I get the drinks? What would you like?”
Greg looked at Hammond. “Lager?”
“Perfect.”
“Two lagers, please, son.”
Tom brought in the drinks on a tray, together with a bowl of crisps. Hammond raised his glass. “Cheers.”
He made his lager last through the meal. As he’d imagined, eating and chatting at the large kitchen table was the norm. How sad, though, to watch Greg push aside morsels of mushroom quiche. Loading his own fork, Hammond realized how little he’d gleaned about the guy’s mental health. He knew of course that, after Afghanistan, Greg suffered post-traumatic stress. Seeing him now, tense even in the presence of his own family, he accepted how little he’d understood. How much, he wondered, did the kids understand.
Spooning out fruit salad, Eileen asked him about Dan, and he made them laugh about roles his son had played in school productions. When Cally, pretty in a summer dress, laughed so much she wiped her eyes, Ha
mmond was struck by Greg’s apparent puzzlement at what she found so funny. Lou, he noticed, tucked her hand inside her dad’s.
When Greg declined coffee Hammond decided it was time to make tracks. Ready to leave, he raised a quick eyebrow at Cally. “I’ll pick you up in the morning. 8.20 all right?”
“Fine,” she said, “thanks.”
He turned to Eileen. “Thank you for such a lovely meal.”
“Thank you,” she said, “for the gorgeous flowers.”
Driving home he revelled in the warm feeling that came with sharing an evening in good company. Twice within a few days. He drove a couple of miles, selected a Jo Stafford CD and wished the lack of life in Greg’s eyes hadn’t taken the edge off things.
*
Morning traffic had built up. The BMW joined a queue at traffic lights on the Browbridge/Leeds Road. Hammond drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Cally laughed. “That’s not going to help.” Before they could move on, the lights turned red again and a woman with blonde hair crossed in front of them. “D’you remember me saying Bloom’s boss reminded me of someone?”
“Yeah?”
“I remembered eventually. It was Catherine Malin; she’s a dead ringer for Susan Jukes.”
“The actress?”
“Actor, please. They’re all actors these days.”
Hammond laughed. “What suddenly made you think of that?”
“The woman who crossed in front of us. Same sort of look.”
Steve thought about the unknown woman and Angie Marsh. “Not another doppelganger?”
“No. She just reminded me of her. I’d already remembered when I saw a piece on Newsnight last week. She’s in a new production at the RSC.”
Hammond let his hands drop. They sat, moving a metre at a time, until he asked, “Does Greg ever take the kids to school?”
“Never.”
There was a finality about her reply, and he took the hint. “I’ve put out nation-wide details in regard to Sykes. Why does it feel like we’re at a bloody standstill; and I don’t mean traffic.”
Cally said, “Not sure we can get much further with David Marsh. Did he actually fall asleep listening to the World Service? What are we missing?”
Hammond glanced at Cally. “How does the Parsons family strike you? Philip Parsons, for instance?”
“I saw him at the funeral, but not to speak to. You thought he seemed over-emotional when you broke the news.”
“Maybe my pre-conceived idea got in the way.” He inched the car forward, then braked. “How about Pete Worsnop?”
She pulled a face. “I don’t see him as a crazed killer. He’s not got the nous. Or the motive.”
“He could have ‘borrowed’ his wife’s keys to Spring House.”
“Philip and Lucy have keys. Possibly James, too.”
Traffic in front moved and Hammond let off the handbrake. “Apart from Marsh, Jez Hemsworth’s the odd one out.”
“He could’ve nicked Lucy’s key.”
Hammond moved into first. “How about Harriet Bloom?”
Cally shifted in her seat. “Oldest friend, husband’s lover, daughter’s godmother.” She paused. “Motive?”
“Would she benefit from Parsons’s death?”
Cally looked doubtful. “She’s applied for the post of Deputy CEO at the hospital, though I can’t see how strangling her best friend would get her the job.”
The traffic showed signs of moving more easily and Hammond signalled a builder’s van waiting on the left.
Cally scooped back her hair. “Put Worsnop on the back burner for now?”
Hammond nodded. “But not too far back.”
26
DC Akpata hadn’t waited until morning to work out her itinerary: she’d sat down the night before and decided where to start. With the address she had for Jez Hemsworth.
The barking started the minute she slammed the Clio door shut. What a racket. And almost certainly coming from somewhere at the back of 28 Victory Villas.
Curling her fingers round her warrant card, she made for the front door, lifted the knocker and let it drop. Doubting if anyone could have heard, she tried again. She turned away, stared at the grotty front hedge newly washed by yesterday’s rain. Over the road, a taxi drew away from First Served. She was watching him drive off when a voice said, “What d’you want?”
Akpata turned quickly. “Good morning.”
The woman stood, arms crossed. “You’re not his bloody sister, are you?”
“Whose sister?”
“Dylan Bloody Beck.If any of you lot set foot this house again, I’ll not be responsible for me actions.”
Kylie showed her ID. “DC Akpata, North Yorkshire Police.”
“Oh.”
“May I come in?”
“If you must.”
“I don’t have to. We could stand here in full view of the street.”
The woman took a step back, screeched at the dogs. “Belt up!” and waved Kylie into the hallway. “Soft as butter,” she said.
“Are they really? I’ll stick to marge.” She took a notebook from her bag. “I’m looking for Jez Hemsworth.”
“I’m his mum.”
“Mrs Martina Hemsworth?”
“You’re all there with your cough drops.”
“Is Jez at home?”
The woman pushed back her dry curls. “No, he’s not.”
“Are you expecting him?”
“Expecting him to what?”
Akpata didn’t rise to the bait. “Are you expecting him to come home anytime soon? Because I’d like to talk to him.”
“Me too.”
Akpata opened her notebook “Am I to gather you’re not sure of his whereabouts?”
“You can gather what you like.”
Akpata stuck her pen behind her ear. “I’m making enquiries concerning a serious crime.”
Hemsworth gave a bored sigh. “Murder.”
“Exactly. So are you going to cooperate?”
The woman lifted a pencilled eyebrow. “Why don’t you try Dylan Beck?”
“I may well do, but first I want to talk to your son.”
She feigned amusement. “Are you thinking he killed Mrs P?”
“Are you?”
“I’m not the fuzz.”
“This is a waste of police time, Mrs Hemsworth.”
“Okay, I don’t know where he is.” Her mouth curled into a sneer. “He’ll wish he’d never set eyes on that Parsons slut, but he’d not stoop to murder.”
Kylie took a newspaper cutting from her bag. “I have a photograph of your son.” She unfolded the piece. “These are protestors at a fracking demo.”
“Oh, them.”
“I’d like you to look at it carefully.”
“Well, that’s him, that’s Jez.”
“Do you recognize anyone else?”
The woman shook her head. “I don’t know none of them types. I’m not into it.”
“Right.” Akpata picked out a few faces in the group; let her finger hover and stop on the woman Lyn Worsnop had picked out. “You don’t know who she is?”
“I wouldn’t know her if she jumped up and bit me.”
Akpata moved towards the front door. “Well, thank you very much Mrs Hemsworth. When your son comes back, please ask him to give me a call.” She put her contact card into the woman’s hand. “Or, if you find out where he’s staying, let me know.” She walked down the path, slid into the car and checked her itinerary.
*
Leaving behind run-down Victoriana, local authority developments, residential Browbridge and the gentrified beginnings of outer Harrogate, Akpata drove north into farmland. The road, dropping downhill and signifying 30 miles an hour, finally led into the picture postcard village of Kirk Pulham. It wasn’t surprising the residents didn’t want fracking developers affecting property prices.
She parked in front of the Shoulder of Mutton and drank water from her flask. Starting with the Post Office would make
sense. Stepping round a tan and white dog tied up outside, she pushed open the heavy door. Three customers, all elderly, queued inside: one putting stamps away in his wallet and a couple looking at greetings cards. She edged up to the counter, slipped her warrant card under the the glass. “May I have a word?”
The Post Mistress came round, indicated a corner near the chiller. “How can I help?”
Akpata unfolded the anti-fracking group photograph. “I wonder if you know any of these folk.” She pointed to Hemsworth. “We know this guy. Do you know the woman at the end, standing next to him?”
“She’s vaguely familiar, not a regular in here, though. I recognize a good few. The one you already know, he’s been at more than one of the demos.”
“I expect he has. The name underneath, presumably the leader, do you know who she is?”
“Vicky Mansfield, but she’s in Canada for a wedding.” Taking her eye off the photo, she noticed her customers had chosen a card. “Were you wanting that one?” Akpata stepped aside while the man paid for the card and slowly, like a pair of tortoises, the couple left the shop. Akpata watched through the door as they unwound the dog’s lead and crossed the road.
“You could ask around,” The Post Mistress said. “There’s a few living alone who’d welcome a bit of gossip.”
Akpata thanked her and looked into the chiller. “I’ll have a sandwich while I’m here.”
“Fresh in every day. What d’you fancy?”
Decisions. “Egg mayonnaise and cress, please.”
Akpata paid, thanked her and left the shop. She waited for a white Audi to pass, and crossed the road. Having started to walk briskly along the narrow pavement, she came to a halt when the old woman of the greetings card couple leaned over her cottage gate. “Excuse me?”
Akpata stopped. “Hello there.”
“Are you doin’ some sort o’ survey?”
“Not exactly a survey.”
“Only me and me husband thought you were summat official.”
“I’m a police officer.” She took the photo from her bag. “Are you concerned about the possibility of fracking in the village?”