by Helen Oliver
“I’ll look on the roster.” Sounding brighter, she said. “Someone’ll get back to you right soon.”
“Thanks.”
Josh Haig looked in. “Barrell o’ laughs, eh?”
Hammond said, “Who?”
“Miss Hardy.”
“I wasn’t looking for laughs.”
“No, sir.”
The door closed behind the PC and Hammond put his hands behind his head. His phone buzzed. Text from Cally. He put an arm on the desk, looked at the message –
Emailed u.
He pulled up the email, read her account of the visit to the Watsons. Agreeing Kerridge wouldn’t buy the idea of searching for a large stone, he emailed back. Then re-read her email. The guy by the river, who might or might not be the one who chucked something in, didn’t sound like Sykes, and Watson was by definition an unreliable witness. Still, decent of the old boy to come forward.
Shit. He suddenly remembered what had been rankling him. He took a reluctant breath, dialled her 07 number. No one available. He left a message. “Hi Jan. Hope you’re ok, and the trip to Bristol goes well. Give my love to Dan.”
A knock at the door. “Come in.”
Haig and a pizza box appeared. “Yours, sir.”
Hammond stood up and took the Mega Caribbean. “Thanks.”
“Smells good, sir.”
“Take your beady eye off it and leave me in peace.” He raised a hand. “Wait. Bring me a knife and paper towels.”
“Sir.”
He was waiting for the knife when Haig’s head came round the door again: minus knife or paper towels.
“Someone to see you, sir.”
“Christ’s sake who?”
“Kimberley Finn, sir. Right bit of – ”
Hammond cut him off, said, “Fine,” shut the pizza box, shoved it in the desk drawer and stood up. “Show her in.”
“Sir.”
Kimberley Finn, early twenties, was as slim as a reed in skinny jeans and Persil-white T-shirt. “Evening,” she said, “I’m your driver.” Cherry lips parting over white teeth, she laughed. “Not now I don’t mean.”
Hammond also laughed. “Select Cabs? My word, that was quick.”
“Yeah well, I were passing, like.” She threw up her hands. “Thought I might as well pop in straight away.”
“Glad you did. Please, sit down.” Mouthing Sorry to her as his phone rang, he said, “Hammond.”
“Just got your message.”
“Sorry Jan, not now.”
Kimberley Finn took a deep breath. “Gorgeous smell.”
“Pizza.”
She looked round. “Where?”
Hammond pulled out the drawer, took out the box and lifted the lid. “Have some.”
“In’t that your tea?”
“Yes, but it’s huge. I couldn’t eat it all.”
“You sure?”
“’Course I’m sure.” He went to the door, leaned out and called Haig.
The PC smirked. “Everything okay?”
“Make it two knives, plus forks and plates.”
Haig asked, “Extra paper towels?”
“Of course.”
Hammond returned to his desk and bent back the cardboard lid. “I’ve had this kind before.”
“Looks lovely,” she said.
Haig tapped at the door. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, pushed the box aside and ‘laid’ a table for two.
Hammond said, “Thank you, Haig,”
Watching the door close, Kimberley said, “He could do with losin’ a bit o’ weight.”
Hammond nodded, cut two triangles of pizza. “Will that be all right?”
“Sure you can spare it?”
“If I couldn’t, I’d have kept it in the drawer.”
“Nah. I’d’ve sniffed it out.” She picked up a piece, took a bite. “I were flippin’ starving.”
She dabbed her mouth. “Sandra, you spoke to her on phone, says you want to know about a car.”
Hammond finished a mouthful. “The night you picked up Miss Hardy on –”
“It were a right coincidence, were that.”
“Why was that?”
“She taught me, or tried to: final year juniors.” She swallowed another bite. “Didn’t recognize me. Not surprising: I were eleven, me teeth stuck out a mile and I had thick lenses in me specs.” She took another bite. “Me dad won a bit on the lottery. Paid for me teeth.”
“That was good of him.”
“Me nan’s got glaucoma, so me eyes are practically free.”
“This car – ”
“The green VW?”
“So that’s what it was.”
“Mint Green Volkswagen Beetle.” She paused, “Not that old. Parked on the verge outside Spring House.”
“Did you notice anyone about?”
“No, but there were a light on upstairs.”
“Can you say whereabouts?”
“On left. Lit up a bit o’ lawn.” She dabbed her mouth again. “I suppose this is about the murder. Is it true there’s been another?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is it safe to be out?”
“You should always be careful. Safety in numbers. Stick to populated areas. Don’t take short cuts.” He paused. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
She grinned. “George Payne. He’s sweet. Trouble is we both work funny hours.”
“What does he do?”
“Security. Exhibitions, agricultural shows. All sorts.” She smiled. “We’re getting engaged.”
“Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy.”
She grinned. “We’ve been together since school.”
40
Cally fumbled for paracetamols. Popped out two and peered at the alarm clock. Five-thirty. She eased herself sideways, picked up the glass of water. Greg muttered in his sleep and heaved himself over. The water, halfway to her mouth, slopped onto the pillow. He coughed and she tried again: dropped the capsules onto her tongue, took a mouthful of water and swallowed them down.
She had the TV appeal firmly in her mind. She’d visit Anne Morris this morning, see if it felt right for her. Harry Davies was organizing the local BBC studio. It would all be over by this evening. Who knows, Sykes might see it. Or someone might tip the wink to their local cop shop.
Eileen’s alarm clock woke her. Proof she must have dropped off.
*
Phone in hand, heading for her desk, Cally read Hammond’s text:
Morning! Car a Mint Green VW Beetle. Stoppard tracing keeper.
She replied: What car are we talking about?
Akpata set a coffee in front of her. “Is that enough milk, Sarge?
“That’s fine.” The DC headed for the door. Cally stopped her. “Kylie?”
“Sarge?”
“What do we know about a mint green Beetle?”
“Not sure –”
Cally’s phone rang and she raised a hand. “Sorry, Kylie.”
Hammond asked, “Get my text?”
Akpata stopped at the door, realized she wasn’t needed and left.
Cally said, “About a Beetle, yes.”
“Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be with you in a tick.”
She stood up, took a mirror from her bag, ran a hand through her hair and slipped the mirror away as the door opened. “Hi,” she said, and raised her eyebrows. “A mint Beetle?”
Hammond unzipped his case, began slipping papers into drawers. “Interesting,” he said, and talked her through Marian Hardy and Kimberley Finn’s visits.
She laughed. “So it was ladies’ night.”
“One lady, and one not quite so much.” He eyed her. “You okay for Anne Morris’s appeal.”
“Fine. Why?”
“Nothing, you just – ”
“Got bags under my eyes?”
“Perish the thought.”
“Not the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had.”
“Kids all right?”
“It’s not the
kids. Eileen’s getting Greg a doctor’s appointment. Today if possible. See if another change of meds can help.”
Hammond didn’t know if Cally and Greg slept in the same room, or bed. Now wasn’t the time to ask. “Good luck with that.”
She opened a file and flipped through Anne Morris’s notes. “I need to get over to Sykes’s mum. Make sure she’s okay with the appeal.”
“You worried?”
“Not really. She’ll be fine, I’ll sit next to her and you’ll be there. God, I hope this helps.”
Hammond pulled out a chair. “In the light of what we’ve not so far discovered, it’s the best we can do.”
“Is Sykes honestly still our prime suspect?”
“You mean are we pissing in the wind?” Hammond stood up, went to the window. “He’s a suspect with a motive. And he split the scene within hours of Parsons’s death.”
“Would it help if we knew how soon he legged it?”
“Everything helps.” He stretched. “One thing leads to another.”
Cally shrugged. “Like life.”
“Viewers with half a brain cell will wonder if he’s a serial killer.”
“Which if they want to hit the headlines,” Cally said, “could make them keen to help.”
Hammond turned back from the window. “Or just the opposite. Folk worry about repercussions: imagine a family massacre.” His phone buzzed a text. “Stoppard,” he said.
Keeper found. Surprise.
Hammond replied: Who? And stop milking it!
Reply: Diana Bloom.
Hammond looked at Cally. “You’ve got Morris to worry about. I’ll deal with this.” He paused briefly, “Give me the Wychwood post code.”
*
Cally stared at herself in the rear-view mirror, reached for her bag. She took out a bottle of Eye Rescue. Sprayed her lids. She blinked several times, let in the clutch and edged into the traffic on the lane leading out of Market Square. Market day, were there actually twice the usual market stalls set up, as well as extras along half the high street? Shoppers buying a week’s worth of fruit and veg. Plus today they could buy all sorts of tat they didn’t know they needed. She smiled to herself; she’d be just as guilty.
Twenty-five minutes later she had parked outside Anne Morris’s and was heading along the garden path. After a slightly longer wait than she expected, the door was opened. “Good morning, Mrs Morris.”
“DS Burns.” Morris was smartly dressed, as if ready to leave for the TV studio there and then.
Cally stepped into the hallway. “I know it’s a bit of a nerve, but is there the possibility of a cup of tea. I’m parched.”
Mrs Morris turned towards the kitchen. “Of course. Do go into the living room. You wouldn’t prefer coffee?”
“Tea would be lovely, thank you.” Cally sat on the two-seater sofa, opened her briefcase, checked her notes and read through the wording she’d written for the appeal.
Bearing a tray, Anne Morris said, “I hope you can manage a biscuit or two.”
Cally said lightly, “I might find a corner.”
“You don’t need to worry – not with your figure. Matter of fact, I’ve lost half a stone. Must be this wretched business.”
Cally held out a sheet of A4. “See what you think of this.” She reached for a custard cream. “I’ll be sitting one side of you, and DCI Hammond the other. There’ll be journalists, of course. They’ll fire questions at you, but you don’t need to respond. If there’s anything to say, Mr Hammond or I will take care of it.” She smiled. “You’ll have said your piece. After that, it’s up to us.” Cally picked up her cup. “Have a read through.”
Mrs Morris reached for a pair of glasses. “Lord, I mustn’t forget to bring these.”
Cally took a ballpoint from her bag, wrote ‘Specs’ on her hand. She waited for Mrs Morris to look up from the sheet of paper. “How does that feel?”
Morris chewed her bottom lip. “It’s fine. Thank you.”
“You’re sure? We can always tweak it.”
The woman grabbed a hankie from her sleeve and pressed it to her face.
Cally rose quickly, put a hand on each shaking shoulder. “You’ll feel a lot better when you’ve got this behind you.”
“Russ wouldn’t kill anyone. He adored Judi. I think he still loved her."
An image flashed into Cally’s head. Sykes, naked – April Parsons in his arms. “Are you sure of that?”
“If he didn’t, why did he go rushing over to Little Brampton?”
“To Judi Fox’s home?”
Anne Morris nodded. “He did that more than once. The first time was when he was here and received a text.”
“Who from?”
“Mrs Parsons. Telling him to get over to Little Brampton.”
“He told you that?”
“He showed me. She wanted him to bring Judi back to her.”
Cally said, “Let me get this straight. Russell had a text from Mrs Parsons, drove over to Little Brampton and came back to Spring House with Judi.” She frowned. “How often did this happen?”
“I’m not sure.” Anne Morris took a breath, controlled herself. “But whenever he left his gardening, Mrs Parsons counted it as part of his job. His wages were the same.”
Cally waited a moment. “Can you remember the date, the first time Russell had to fetch Judi?”
“I’m not one for writing everything on the calendar.”
“Even a vague idea?”
Mrs Morris nudged her cup in its saucer. “It was after Christmas. I was home by my normal time, even though I’d been to the doctor.”
Cally asked, “What made it normal time?”
“I had a lunch time appointment, so I wouldn’t need to take time off work.”
“If I need to know, I could call your practice.” Cally took out her pen. “Who are you with?”
“Dr Matthews and Partners.”
Cally stood up. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty. You’re not to worry, I’ll be with you all the time.”
“Thank you. Is it all right if I wear this?”
“Perfect.”
Walking towards the front door, Cally said, “I know it’s a long shot, but do you remember what Mrs Parsons said in her text?”
Anne Morris shook her head. “I said to Russ at the time. ‘Is this some sort of code?’”
*
Hammond stood on the step. Nice house, typical ’thirties. Tugging a wrought-iron bell pull, he wondered how many years it took a monkey puzzle to grow to the height of the monster behind him. A chain was loosened and the heavy door partly opened. Tall, wearing pristine chinos, the woman smiled. “Hello?”
Hammond showed his ID. “Detective Chief Inspector Hammond.”
She released the chain. “Diana Bloom. Please, come in.”
Hammond stepped in the cool hall. “Thank you.”
Closing the door, she said. “I know your name, how can I help you?” She paused, an ear cocked in the direction of the stairs. She put a hand on the banister. “Lucy? Did I hear Leo?”
A voice called down. “No worries, he’s good.”
Hammond smiled. “I’ve heard a fair bit about young Leo. Is everything going according to plan?”
“I don’t think there’s a plan as such. However, the little man is definitely flourishing.” She turned towards the kitchen. “Would you like to follow me? I’ve some bread on the go.”
“Thank you.”
She waved an arm. “Do sit down.” She slipped on an apron, rolled up the sleeves of her blue linen shirt and shook a sprinkling of flour onto a board on the worktop. Next, taking a cloth from the top of a mixing bowl, she scooped out a soft mound of dough and threw it onto the floury board. “I’m sorry about this,” she said, “but it won’t be right if I don’t deal with it straight away.”
Hammond took out his notebook. “Fine by me, if we can talk at the same time.”
She began to knead the dough. “Absolutely.”
“Mrs
Bloom,” he said, “I believe you are the owner of a light green Volkswagen Beetle.”
The kneading slowed up. “I am.” She looked puzzled, though didn’t completely stop the rolling movement. “I call her Araminta. She’s perfect for my needs, though perhaps not quite so convenient now we have the little man on board.”
“Right.” He caught her eye. “Please think carefully before you answer. …Did you take your Beetle for a drive during the early hours of Tuesday the 17th May?”
The puzzled look returned. “Of course I didn’t.”
“Why ‘of course’?”
“Because I don’t go dashing around the countryside in the middle of the night.”
“Or even into town?”
Diana Bloom gave a short laugh. “That would be even less likely. If I were idiotic enough to take a spin at that time of night, I can’t imagine heading for Harrogate or Leeds.” She reached for two loaf tins. “Is someone supposed to have seen me?”
Hammond said lightly, “According to you, they’d have been wrong. Does anyone else drive your car?”
“I’m sorry... just let me put this into tins.”
Hammond said, “There’s no hurry,” and watched her divide the dough in two.
She leaned against the draining board. “Only three of us have driven Araminta.” I and my daughter, Harriet, of course. She’s a named driver. And – though I was less than thrilled – Lucy.”
Hammond expressed surprise. “Lucy?”
She waited a moment. “When I first bought the Beetle I drove over to see April.”
“With anything particular in mind?”
“Just to have a snack and look at Leo’s nursery. Lucy’s bump was enormous and, to be honest, I wouldn’t have thought she could have sat in front of the steering wheel.”
“But she did?”
“April was spitting feathers. I never imagined she could be so angry.”
Hammond said, “Are you saying neither of you knew Lucy took the car?” He let a moment pass. “How did she get the key?”
“My fault, I’m hopeless with keys. I plonk them down and forget where I’ve put them.”
“You seem super-efficient to me.”
“Most of the time I’m not bad. However, that naughty girl spotted the key and took the car out. Not for long, and she didn’t go far.” She frowned. “That can’t have been legal, can it?”
Hammond said, “We won’t worry about that, though I’d like a word with Lucy.”