by Helen Oliver
“You’ll have to fill me in,” he said. “Let me know how he tackles Ferdinand.”
Draining her sauvignon blanc, Jan smiled when their final course arrived. When she motioned to what was left of their second bottle of Rioja, Hammond said, “With semi-freddo – are you sure?”
She said, “Oh – did you want a pudding wine?”
“No,” he said, and poured the remains of the Rioja into her spare glass. His phone vibrated and he looked apologetic: “Text.”
She drank some of the wine. “You’d better read it.”
He glanced at Rutter’s message: Pregnant.
He looked at Jan. “Excuse me.”
She took another good swig, and he texted, Ta.
Came the reply: Don’t mench.
Jan’s uncertain smile was as he remembered when they first met. When, at the end of a randy evening he’d not been disappointed.
The evening Dan was conceived.
Head on one side, she said, “Do you know the play, Steve?”
“‘The Tempest’? Yes, though it’s ages since I saw it.”
Her speech was starting to sound slightly indistinct. “What’s it about? What sort of part is this Ferdinand?”
“Nothing too taxing. He’s a youth who falls for a girl on the island where he’s been ship-wrecked, and– ”
She butted in. “Not too taxing?”
“No.”
“That’s a relief because – I have to say this, Steve – he’s not brilliant.” Her face brightened. “Anyway, acting isn’t everything. He might make a good director.”
“Jan, you haven’t seen the play yet.”
“I know, but I’ve seen him do other bits and pieces.” She looked him in the eye. “Matter of fact I’m a bit embarrassed, dragging Geoffrey all the way to Bristol.”
“Give the lad a chance.”
They ate in silence until, delicately touching her mouth with her napkin, she smiled at Hammond and put her spoon and fork together. Waving a hand and starting to rise, she said, a little too clearly, “Where’s the ladies’ loo?”
Their original waiter approached. “The Ladies, madam?” Pointing, he said, “Door beside Reception, then second on the left.”
Jan said, with some difficulty, “I’m directionally challenged. Please tell my friend to look out for me.” She smiled at the waiter: “He used to be my husband.” An older waitress took Jan’s elbow. “This way, madam.”
Hammond stood up. Aware of diners pretending not to have witnessed the lively interchange, he settled the bill quickly and asked the waiter to call for a taxi. He tipped too heavily and thanked the waitress for reminding him about his jacket.
*
“So this is where you live,” Jan said, and looked around. She gave a wobbly smile. “You wouldn’t want a cat,” she said, “there’d be no room to swing it.” She walked to the window. “Call that a view?” She turned, steadying herself on the sink. “How about one for the road, Steve?”
Hammond reached for the kettle. “You’re not going home tonight.”
“What’re you talking about?” Her eyelids drooped. “All right, forget the malt. Pint of strong coffee; be as right as rain.”
“You can drink as much coffee as you like,” he said, “while I make you up a bed.”
“Which bed’s that?”
“My bed.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“On the sofa.”
She gave a slow smile. “I wouldn’t mind sleeping with you.”
“That ship sailed, Jan.”
“Shipwrecked like Fergi whatsisname?”
“Almost a joke,” Hammond said, and took coffee from a shelf. “I’ll lend you a shirt.” She looked puzzled, and he said, “You didn’t have overnight things.”
“No, because I’m going home.”
“You were going home, but you’re over the limit and staying the night.”
“Any old shirt will do,” she said. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Hammond pointed her in the right direction, found a shirt and laid it on his bed.
He listened to her flushing the cistern, running taps and finally finding the shirt. He made a mug of instant coffee and took it to the bedroom. She put out an arm. “You’re too kind,” she said, and nearly spilt it.
Back in the kitchen Hammond reached for the Johnny Walker, poured two fingers and leaned against the sink. He put a hand up to the window catch, pushed it open. Rolling whisky on his tongue, he looked up at the sliver of new moon, thought about others sharing the night sky: Dan with his ambition for treading the boards, which, if Jan was right, wasn’t likely to happen, and Cally who he hoped was asleep. With Greg beside her?
He undressed as far as his boxers, threw two cushions off the sofa and lay under a sheet.
Although there was never going to be a good night’s sleep on something less than his six-foot-two, he tried to relax. Which he must have done, because the next thing he knew he was awake, with a ghostly figure peering down at him. “What the – ”?
“Why don’t you come to bed, Steve?”
“Christ’s sake, Jan. I’d just managed to drop off.”
“I feel so guilty.”
He lifted himself on one elbow. “Fuck’s sake get back to bed.”
*
Breakfast, and Jan looked like death. Nursing a cup of tea, she said, “Sorry, I know I look a sight.” A piece of toast flew out of the toaster. “God!” she gasped, “did it have to do that?”
Hammond grinned. “I should have warned you.” He spread the toast with butter and marmalade, cut it in half and put it on her plate.
She guided a piece to her mouth. “You’re being terribly nice. Considering last night.”
“I feel bad about Bristol.” He eyed her: “You could still be over the limit.”
Mail thudded onto mat in the hallway and he went to pick it up. Dropping envelopes on the worktop, he took another look at her. “I suggest you go back to bed for a couple of hours, take a shower, then see how you feel.” He folded the wrapper on the sliced loaf and put it in the fridge.
Jan raised her head carefully. “You don’t need to keep bread in the fridge.”
“I prefer to.” He shut the fridge door. “I’ll come back about midday and bring your car.”
Hammond texted Cally, asked her to send Akpata to pick him up. Next he took a shower, shaved, asked his ex-wife if she wanted more coffee, pulled underwear from the airing cupboard and slipped into a clean shirt and chinos.
Sidling into the bedroom, she apologized for causing so much trouble. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ve arranged for a DC to drive me to the station.”
“Why, where are you going?”
“The police station.” The doorbell rang. “Ah,” he said, “she’s here.” Walking to the door, he heard Jan behind him. Still wearing Hammond’s shirt, and awake enough to show off her legs, she waited as he opened the door.
In blue gingham and as fresh as spring water, the DC smiled broadly. “Good morning, sir.”
“Morning, Akpata.” Holding the door, he said lightly, “This is Jan. Her car broke down.”
Akpata smiled at Jan. “Oh, rotten luck. Is it–?”
Hammond said. “It’s being seen to.” Pulling the door shut, he said, “See you later, Jan.”
38
Cally took a minute to study Hammond’s notes on his visit to Anne Morris. She looked across the desk. “Thank you for coming in, Mrs Morris.”
“I hope it’ll help.” The woman took a nervous breath. “You mentioned an appeal.”
“I’ll come to that, but first I want to bring you up to date… Before I start I need you to understand that anything we discuss is confidential. Some of it will be public knowledge soon enough, and it won’t benefit anyone if the press get hold of details sooner than necessary.” She pushed Hammond’s notes aside. “We spoke on the subject before: your son Russell having been engaged to Judi Fox.”
Anne Morris nodded.
“Just for a short time.”
“About four months?”
“Something like that.”
Cally said, “I’m afraid this is going to come as a shock, Mrs Morris. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that Judi Fox has been found dead.”
Anne Morris paled. “Judi dead? My God, how…?”
Cally leaned forward, “She was murdered.”
Tears sprung to the woman’s eyes. “No. How dreadful. Oh, those poor parents.”
Cally nodded. “It’s been grim for them. Their daughter had been dead for some time before her body was discovered.” She paused. “We’re presuming your son will have heard about Mrs Parsons’s death. When he learns about Judi, though we know they were no longer together, it’ll be a lot for him to deal with.”
Her voice shaking, Anne Morris said, “Mrs Parsons was bad enough, but Judi -” She stopped. “I think he still loved her.” She shook her head. “He was going to advise her and Mrs Parsons on their new idea.”
“What idea was that?”
“Having their therapies under the same roof.”
“Spring House, you mean?”
“In the grounds. Russell was asked to help with plans for treatment rooms.” She touched the corners of her mouth. “Miss Bloom was to be an advisor. She’s a friend of Mrs Parsons.”
“Your son knows Harriet Bloom?”
“Yes.”
“Was he in on any of the meetings?”
“I don’t think it actually got to that stage.” She shifted in her chair. “Isn’t that irrelevant now? Can you explain why you’re not out looking for whoever killed Judi and Mrs Parsons?” She hesitated. “Could it have been the same person?”
“Believe me, Mrs Morris, we’re looking at all possibilities.”
“I read that article in the Post. Talk about washing dirty linen in public! I’ve felt sick ever since. Can you imagine what it’s like for me: everyone at work, never mind the neighbours, all knowing the police are looking for my son?” She broke off as the door opened. Hammond acknowledged her, slid a file onto his desk. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, and left.
Cally said, “Remind me, when did you last see Russell?”
“Is that not in Mr Hammond’s notes?”
“I expect it is,” said Cally, “but I’d like to hear it from you.”
Anxiety furrowed the woman’s forehead. “It was the Friday before we all knew about Mrs Parsons.”
“We all?”
“When it was in the papers. When it was out there for all the world to see.”
Cally let seconds pass. “On that Friday, Mrs Morris, was Russell with you for long?”
“No. He was on his way back to Leeds after he’d done a day’s work for Mrs Parsons. If I’m not home from work he waits for me.”
“Did he seem his usual self?”
“As a matter of fact, he was upset.”
“Why was that?”
Anne Morris said, “Mrs Parsons, in her wisdom, decided she didn’t need him any more.” She cleared her throat. “He was very upset.”
Cally nodded slowly. “Was RusseIl inclined to lose his temper?”
“Hardly ever.”
Moments passed before Cally said, “I realize this is a very hard time for you. However, in order to move forward, in a way that will help all of us,” she widened her eyes a little, “and that includes Russell – we think that a TV appeal by you would be the best plan.” She paused. “Nothing too complicated. You will ask anyone who may have seen Russell, or knows where he is, or where he might be, to come forward.” she paused briefly, “including Russell himself. It might be just the prod he needs, to make him aware of the distress his silence is causing you. We’re hoping that if he knows how eager we – and you – are to talk to him, he’ll be in touch.” She said quietly, “If he’s got nothing to worry about he will contact us.”
“You’re not suggesting Russell is involved with what happened to Mrs Parsons?”
“It could help tremendously if you make an appeal. If you give him the chance to come forward and talk to us.”
“To clear his name?”
“Like I said. Give him the chance. There’ll be something on the local news tonight. After that, with your help, we’ll follow it up tomorrow with an appeal to the general public.”
“I’ll do it.”
Cally stood up, moved round and touched Mrs Morris on the shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll contact you later today.”
Anne Morris looked up at her. “Suppose I fluff it?”
“You won’t. If you get worried you can read it off the auto-cue.”
*
Hammond dispatched Jan and her car, cadged a lift back to the station and realized he was badly in need of a strong coffee.
“Kettle Kaffe?”
Cally grinned up from her pile of paperwork. “You’re on.”
*
The café was busy. Cally bagged a table and Hammond made for the counter to order. Settled at the table he said, “How did it go with Morris?”
She raised an eyebrow, “I might ask you the same about last night. You look all in.”
He shook his head. “Please don’t.”
“Morris is on edge,” Cally said, “but she’ll do the appeal.” She looked up as their coffee arrived. “Thanks, that was very quick.” Eyeing Hammond, the waitress slid the coffees on the table. “He looked like he needed it.”
Cradling her cup, Cally gave Hammond a chance to drink a mouthful. “Changing tack,” she said, “we were talking about going back to square one. However, Fox’s death has put a different slant on things. Can we assume, that in her case, her mother was the last to see her?” She put her cup down. “Anything about Fox’s luggage in Witney?”
Hammond nodded. “Nolan and Stoppard are back with it. Thames Valley questioned folk at the fair. No one knows how it got there, though we do know the fair was in Harrogate before it moved on to Witney.”
“It was on King Charles’ Field until the 17th,” Cally said. “Eileen thought about taking Tom and Lou, but left it too late.” She rubbed between her eyebrows. “Does this narrow the window, Steve? Is it a given that Judi and the luggage disappeared at the same time? According to Kate Fox, their daughter left the stuff at the foot of stairs, planning to put it in the car next morning.” She paused.” It was gone by the time Kate made the early morning pot of tea. If the fair was packing up, ready to leave on its last day, when do we guess the luggage was likely to have been dumped?”
“Very late. Midnight at the earliest? Ideal way to lose it, in the chaos of the fair moving on.”
“If the visitor was the killer,” Cally said, “he’d hardly have been likely to dump the luggage first, then kill Fox.” She fell silent. “She was already dead?”
Hammond nodded. “And buried.” He drained his coffee. “Where do we see Sykes in all this? Legging it after he’d strangled Parsons, then coming back the same day to bludgeon his ex-fiancée to death before dumping her luggage at a fair in Harrogate?” He paused. “Or do we not see him at all?”
Cally drank more coffee. “Moving on,” she said. “On yet another tack: do we accept Bloom was the last to see Parsons alive?” She tapped the table. “By the way, her name came up this morning.”
“In what respect?”
“Anne Morris told me Sykes knows Bloom,” she said, and told Hammond about the proposed Spring House business plan.
Hammond drained his coffee. “We’ll talk to Bloom together.”
“Okay. At Wychwood?”
He shook his head. “Too many distractions. Leave it with me.”
*
Hammond didn’t leave it very long. At three-fifteen, waiting for Harriet Bloom, he and Cally ran through their notes. “Okay,” Cally said, “so first off, double check the Monday evening when Bloom was supposedly the last to see Parsons alive.”
Hammond tapped his phone. “Do we have a gap in the timeline? In her phone message Bloom talks about being busy on Wednesday, but
hoping for a catch-up on Thursday.”
“There’s an even larger gap,” Cally said, “in that we knew nothing about any kind of partnership between Parsons and Judi Fox, or that Bloom was involved as an advisor.”
Hammond checked his watch. “She’s due any minute. Start with that.”
Cally nodded. “Plus check on her movements after she left Parsons at Spring House. I know we talked about that, but we’ve been majoring on Sykes; perhaps to the cost of other possibilities.”
Mal Cope knocked, leaned in. “Miss Bloom to see you, sir.”
“Show her in.”
Cally arranged three chairs in a way that wouldn’t make Bloom feel she was facing a panel. Mal pushed the door. “Miss Bloom, sir.”
Hand outstretched, Cally said, “Come in Miss Bloom. Steve, this is Harriet Bloom.” She laughed. “I can’t believe you two haven’t met before.”
Hammond said, “Nice to meet you, take a seat. Thank you for taking time off work. I know it’s not easy.”
Miss Bloom chose carefully: a chair not directly facing the window. “No problem. Mrs Jukes completely understood.”
Hammond said, “And she is?”
“Our CEO.”
Cally said, “She and I have met.”
Hammond said, “Oh yes, I remember.”
Cally tidied a pile of papers. “Can I get you anything, Miss Bloom? Tea, coffee?” She smiled. “No home-made lemonade, I’m afraid.” She turned to Hammond. “Miss Bloom’s mother makes delicious lemonade.”
“No thank you, I’m fine.”
“Miss Bloom,” said Hammond, “asking you here is purely routine, so please don’t feel under pressure.” He took a longish pause. “You’re aware, I’m sure, that we’ve not been able to hold anyone for April Parsons’s murder.”
Miss Bloom frowned. “Are you no nearer tracking down Russell Sykes? I read the article in the Post.” She shook her head. “His mother must be sick with worry.”
Cally said, “You know her?”
“I don’t, but I imagine she’s close to her son.”
Hammond stood up, stretched his legs, stood behind Cally. “Mrs Morris has been talking to DS Burns this morning -”
Bloom frowned. “I don’t think I know Mrs Morris.”