by Helen Oliver
Cally checked the smiley faces, shook her head. “No, she’d broken it off by then.”
Hammond reached for the desk phone. Cally raised an eyebrow. “Who are you calling?”
“Sykes’s mother.”
Anne Morris answered after two rings. “Get lost!”
Hammond jerked back, “Hold on a minute, Mrs Morris.”
“You heard –”
“This is DCI Hammond. Don’t hang up.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve had a basinful since that article in the Post this morning. Right now there are two reporters outside the house. I can’t even leave for work.”
Hammond said, “I’ll send an officer round, get the blighters out of your way. Hold on a minute, please.” He tapped his mobile, brought up Morris’s address, slid it in front of Cally. “Get uniform round there. Journalists are door-stepping the poor woman.”
Cally nodded, pulled out her phone.
Hammond said, “You still there, Mrs Morris?”
“There’s nowhere else I can be.”
“An officer will be with you shortly.” He paused briefly. “I realize this doesn’t feel like the right time, but would you mind answering a question or two?” He paused. “I’m asking in the interests of an ongoing enquiry.”
“No, that’s fine.”
Hammond said, “I don’t believe you mentioned that your son was once engaged to Judi Fox.”
“Did I not? It wasn’t intentional.” She paused. “I was probably caught off-guard when you called.”
“Did Russell tell you why Miss Fox broke off their engagement?”
“Reading between the lines, I think she found someone else.”
It was a long shot. “Do you have a name?”
“No,” she said, then added quickly, “Your lot are here, two getting out of the car. Thank you, Mr Hammond.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs Morris. I’ll let you go.”
He switched off his phone and Cally asked, “Is she all right?”
“She is now.” He shook his head. “Mixed blessing, the press.”
Cally continued to examine pages from the earliest diary onwards. Only the latest contained circled dates and smiley faces. Hammond took a turn round the office, stretched and rubbed the back of his neck.
Cally chuckled, “That’s a bad sign.”
“What?”
“You – pacing like a caged lion.”
“Last time you said tiger.”
“Okay, then. Any big cat.”
Hammond shook his arms at the wrists, rolled his shoulders. “What was it we said: shake the tree a bit?”
Cally raised an eyebrow. “Spread our wings. Don’t get fixated on Sykes?” She fingered one of the diaries. “Would it help if we go back over stuff?”
Hammond asked, “How far?”
“The beginning.”
“No problem,” he said, and brought up their April Parsons document on the screen. He was quiet for a few moments. “…She saw Lucy on the Monday morning. No clients.” He paused. “Did we look at clients in the afternoon?”
“She didn’t have any. Sounds like she left it free for preparing supper for Harriet Bloom.”
“Mmm…” Hammond said, “Can’t have taken long, can it?”
Cally said, “The starter wouldn’t have taken much time. It’s so easy it makes you wonder why Bloom needed the recipe.”
Hammond scrolled down the page. “Talk to Bloom again.”
Cally asked, “You or me?”
“Both of us. Together. …Plus there are others I think we should see together.” He paused. “Angie Marsh. Jez Hemsworth.”
Cally nodded. “Definitely Jez Hemsworth. Pete Worsnop?”
“Leave him for a bit.”
Cally said, “We can’t be certain David Marsh was home asleep during those crucial hours. No firm alibi. Ditto Jez Hemsworth.” She rolled her pen round the desk. “Dylan Beck? He didn’t know he was the father of April Parsons’s grandchild, so he’ll have been as shocked as anyone.” She paused. “Too late for him to think of killing his child’s grandmother. And even if there’d been time, why would he?” She looked across the room. “Who are the usual perpetrators?”
“Family,” he said. “Or at least someone they know.”
“Agreed. Though rule Lucy out.” She frowned. “Father or son? You thought Parsons senior was a bit of an odd ball.”
“Doesn’t make him a murderer.”
Cally frowned, thought for a minute. “Pete Worsnop wasn’t at home that night.”
“No – but you don’t reckon he’s got what it takes.”
“He bought the belt. Though we don’t know if he still had it.” She gave a little grin. “Tell you what.”
“Brainwave alert?”
“Let Akpata get him hot under the collar.”
Hammond said, “Pete Worsnop?”
“Why not?”
“No reason.”
*
The morning was warming up fast. It was hot work in the field behind ‘Dunedin’. Kate Fox closed the curtains and blinds at the back of the house. Colin, however, climbed painfully upstairs to the landing window. Supporting himself on the windowsill, he counted the uniformed officers in their short-sleeved shirts. Eight in a line.
Surely they weren’t searching for his daughter’s body. So were they looking for something that might lead them to her? One of them bent down to pick something up, and the old man’s heart looped the loop.
He listened to Kate loading the dishwasher in the kitchen. How would she cope? How would he? He wished Zena was as close to Kate as Judi. Things were never the same after the rift: not after that idiot, Max, got a bit silly over Judi.
A thud on the front doormat.
Colin called down, “Paper, Kate!”
“He’s late today.” Her voice was breathless. “I’ll fetch it.”
He watched Kate bend to pick up the Post, saw her scan the front-page headlines. She looked up. “We’re on Page Five.”
“Don’t look at it without me, Kate.” Clutching the banister, he made his way downstairs.
The newspaper lay on the tablecloth. Kate pulled out a chair for him; held his elbow as he sat down. “You look first,” she said.
He adjusted his glasses, turned the pages.
“Look,” she said quickly, “Judi.”
“And Russell.”
Side by side, they read Leanne Robb’s column. Kate’s head shook slightly. “Did you really say all that?”
“You said some of it,” her husband said. “I can’t see there’s anything out of the way. You often hear folk say the papers get it all wrong.”
“I wish she hadn’t mentioned Zena’s rugs.”
“You told her,” Colin said gently, and took her hand. “We’ll have to hope this will help.”
35
DC Akpata took a right into HomeAll’s carpark. Climbing out of the car, she breathed in the scent of dampened annuals. One day, she thought, when she was married, she’d buy plants and let her kids have a patch of their own.
She headed for the Service Desk, approached the unsmiling assistant. “Excuse me.”
“Yes?”
“Can you tell me where I can find Mr Pete Worsnop?”
The woman thought for a moment. “He should be in Garden Furniture.” She waved an arm. “Past Tools and Bathrooms. Left beside Lighting.”
“Thanks.”
Worsnop, chatting to a busty bleached-blonde, wore a name badge. Registering Akpata, the woman looked archly at him. “Was that everything you wanted, Mr Worsnop?” He nodded, and the blonde bustled off in the direction of Outside Summer Planting. Indicating two wrought iron chairs, Akpata produced her warrant card. “Detective Constable Akpata. Shall we sit down?” As they sat, she added, “I’m following up a lead in connection with the murder of Mrs April Parsons.”
Sweat stood out on Worsnop’s forehead. “I already spoke to Sergeant Burns.”
“I know, but we need to tie up a few loo
se ends. Are you happy to talk to me?”
Worsnop fished in his apron pocket for a handkerchief, wiped his forehead. “No problem.”
“We could always talk at the police station if you prefer.”
“Better here.”
“You’ll be rather tired of this, I expect.”
Worsnop’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Tired o’ what?”
“Being asked to confirm,” she said, “where you were during the early hours of the morning Mrs Parsons was killed.”
“I were here, weren’t I.”
Kylie took out her notebook, flipped back through several pages. “So you were. Apparently helping with a new display.”
“It were overtime, like.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Are there staff who’ll vouch for you?”
“I’ve been through all this.”
Kylie nodded sympathetically. “I know. It’s a bind, isn’t it. But, like I said, it’s a question of loose ends.”
Pete cleared his throat. “What sort o’ loose ends?”
“Like you giving me the name, or names, of anyone who actually saw you.”
“I signed in and out.”
Kylie closed her notebook. “Good.” She forced Pete to look at her. “Just one name, Mr Worsnop? Maybe someone who helped you with the display?” She took a look at the immediate area. “This is extremely imaginative.”
“Don’t say owt, will you.”
She paused. “That depends on what you tell me.”
“I weren’t here.”
“You said you signed in and out.”
“Easy enough, is that.”
“I may have to ask you to come to the station, Mr Worsnop.”
“I hate them places.”
Akpata glanced around. “So. If you weren’t here, where were you?”
“I were in caravan out back.”
“Where exactly?”
“In field. There’s summer staff stay in a couple o’ caravans. Just while it’s busy, like.”
“Am I to assume you weren’t on your own?”
“Yeah. No, I weren’t.”
“Who were you with?”
He looked awkward. “You just saw her. Mrs Morton.” Akpata looked Pete up and down. Had he lied to his wife, and was scared at being found out? Mrs Morton, she reflected, was no spring chicken.
Maybe the middle-aged lovers took their pleasure and fell asleep. Would others on duty have noticed Worsnop was missing? Or that she was? It was a huge store, so probably not. Was this man capable of killing his wife’s employer? To look at the guy, you’d not think he could organize a booze-up in a brewery.
Her mind turning to Mrs Morton, Akpata scribbled fast. The bosomy woman, who right now had no idea Worsnop had spilled the beans, needed to be interviewed before, intentionally or otherwise, she muddied the waters of his alibi.
“Okay.” Akpata stood up. “How about introducing me to your lady friend?”
“Mrs Morton?”
“Presuming she’s the only one.”
“She is. I swear on me daughters’ lives.”
“So shall we find her?”
Mrs Morton was outside, titivating hanging baskets on a stand. Worsnop said, “Mrs Morton, this is– ”
Akpata put up a hand. “I’ll take it from here, Mr Worsnop. You get yourself back to work.”
“Right,” he said. He gazed at the woman; his face saying everything and nothing, “See you later, Mrs Morton.”
At the woman’s uncertain look, Akpata said, “I’m Detective Constable Akpata. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
The woman blinked nervously. “Out here?”
“If that’s all right with you.”
“It’s quiet over by the compost.”
Akpata smiled. “Lead the way,” she said, and followed Mrs Morton up and down pathways of summer bedding, perennials and young shrubs. Stopping at an area of grow-bags and compost, she said, “Don’t worry, Mrs Morton. I’m not here to make things awkward for you. I just want to clarify a few points.”
Squinting, the woman shielded her eyes from the sun. “What about?”
“Okay. Just one straight answer, please.” She paused. “In the early hours between, say three a.m. and six a.m, of Tuesday 17th May – when staff worked on the new display – were you here?”
“I didn’t have no overtime. I weren’t working in store.”
“I understand you occupy one of the caravans.”
The woman picked at a sticky label on a bag of sand. “Only,” she said, “in the busy season.”
Akpata looked into the pale blue eyes. “Think very carefully before you answer my next question, Mrs Morton.” A moment passed. “Did Pete Worsnop, at any time that night, visit you in your caravan? By ‘any time’ I mean between the times I previously mentioned.”
Mrs Morton’s bosom heaved as she took a breath. “Yes.”
“At about what time? Or perhaps you’re able to be precise.”
“I can’t be precise,” she hesitated, “because we were talking a lot and he were wi’ me quite a long time. “She paused. “It were quite likely his break.”
Akpata said, “I suspect his break might not have been that long.” She caught Mrs Morton’s eye, wouldn’t let her look away. “Not if you had a lot to talk about.”
The woman appeared to give the question more thought. “Might’ve been longer.”
“I don’t need details, Mrs Morton, but I’d like to know if Mr Worsnop stayed long enough for you both to fall asleep.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or whether, on the other hand, he went back to work on the display.”
Tanya Morton’s cheeks flushed but she remained silent.
“Which was it, Mrs Morton? Or was it neither?”
“Yes, it were.”
Akpata waited a moment. “Which?”
“Long enough for us to fall asleep.”
“For how long?”
“Quite a time. I woke first and had to get him up at quarter past seven.”
Akpata suppressed a smile. “That’s fairly precise.”
“We never meant to drop off like that.”
“Thank you, Mrs Morton.”
The woman’s head shook a little. “Is that it? Can I go?”
“Yes. Thank you for your help.” Akpata, staying where she was, watched Mrs Morton hurry back to the hanging baskets. She believed she’d screwed the truth out of both of them. Pinpointing Worsnop’s movements during the early hours of 17th May was unlikely to have furthered their investigation, other than eliminate Worshop from their enquiries. Though what was it they said? ‘Never assume anything’.
Sitting on a pile of compost bags, their warmth almost too hot on her thighs, Akpata wrote up her notes, and put her pen away.
36
A friendly guy cleared the pavement tables. Cally drained her iced-coffee. “Thank you,” she said, “that was very good.”
He gave the table an extra wipe. “You’re welcome.”
Walking away from the pedestrianized area, towards the slope where she’d parked the car, she wondered if Greg’s mood was better than when she left this morning. When she had a minute, she’d call Eileen. In sight of the car, she clicked the remote and moved aside for a group of women tourists dragging themselves up the hill. Not too tired though, to talk and laugh, their decibels almost masked the sound of her car phone.
She slid in swiftly. “Hi, Steve.”
“Where are you?”
“Harrogate. Been in court.”
“The Bryar case?”
“Yes. He got off.”
“Bugger.”
Cally removed a scarf from the scorching steering wheel. “How are things at your end? Has the search behind Dunedin produced anything?”
“Surplus to requirements. Dog walkers found a body.”
“Where?”
“Glone Wood.”
She shut her eyes. “Judi Fox?”
“Almost certainly. Neil’s on the job. I’m about to dr
ive across.”
“Parents been informed?”
A pause. “I need you to do it, Cally.” A shorter pause. “As soon as.”
Cally watched happy shoppers coming out of a shoe boutique. “Okay. Who’s family liaison?”
“PC Liz Armstrong.”
She took a breath. “Right. I’ll be with you in twenty. Twenty-five at the most.” She turned the key. “Will you let Akpata know?”
“Done.”
While she checked her mirrors Hammond put her in the picture. A dog seeming over-interested in a particular area of woodland. The owners’ horror at finding a comparatively shallow grave and a fully clothed female whose sleep beneath the leaves had done a whole lot more than rob her of her looks.
“Okay, Steve, see you later.” Preparing herself for the town’s one-way system, Cally turned into the uphill line of traffic. She knew it would be hard, telling the Foxes that a body had been found so close to home. Any last glimmer of hope would slip away.
*
Family Liaison Officer Liz Armstrong was waiting in the office. “Sarge.”
“Afternoon, Liz.”
By now, Cally was familiar with the country drive to Little Brampton: wheat growing taller by the day; rape beginning to shed its blinding yellow; maize swelling; willows green to the ground; beech and oak losing their early brilliance; gardens popping with colour.
She turned to Liz Armstrong. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Cally’s eyes adjusted as, leaving the long-view of farmland baked in sun, they drove into a tunnelled cathedral nave of shade. To the left, among the trees, a tent had been erected and flashes of blue and white tape quivered around CSI overalls. Touching the brake, Cally registered Neil Rutter’s bulk.
Liz turned her head. “So that’s it, Sarge?”
Cally nodded. “Hardly any distance from the house.” Another two hundred yards, once again into the sun, and she pulled up.
Liz said, “This close?”
Cally cut the engine, said, “Afraid so,” and stepped out onto the road.
Following her sergeant to the front door, Liz said, “Right. Anything in particular?”
“You know the form. Just get the feel of it.” Cally rang the doorbell, turned briefly. “Be there for them. We’ve no idea who did this; keep an ear open for anything that doesn’t sound right.”