by Helen Oliver
“All right, I’ll pop upstairs, and –”
Hammond raised a hand. “Just give her a call, please. Ask her to come down.”
Diana went into the hall and Hammond followed. Diana called up and Lucy shouted, “Won’t be a sec!”
Diana rolled her eyes. “It’s a blessing Leo can stand noise. Mind you he’s sensitive to atmosphere. He’s not so happy if it’s not all sweetness and light.”
Hammond spotted photos on the hall shelf: two youngish mums with kids of various ages, one a babe-in-arms. “Your family?”
“My other daughters, and their offspring. All in the West Country. I don’t see enough of them.” She pulled forward a photo in a silver frame. “Here’s Harriet after her graduation.”
Hammond studied he photograph. “You must have been proud.”
“Actually, I wasn’t there.” Replacing the photo, she said, “Two of Laura’s caught chickenpox and I did a mercy dash to Exmoor. I don’t think Harriet ever quite forgave me.” She polished another photo on her apron, pointed to a boy of seven or eight. “He’s off to university in October.” She paused, “Have you any children?”
“One son, Dan. He’s in Bristol.” He glanced up the stairs. “Would you mind if Lucy and I go into the garden? Have a little chat on our own?”
“Of course. You can sit at the table; Harriet put the parasol up before she left this morning.”
He turned, as Lucy in shorts and T-shirt came downstairs. “Hi, Lucy, good to see you again. Glad to hear Leo’s doing so well. …How are you?”
“I’m good.”
“I hope you’ve got time for a short chat.”
“Fine.”
“It’s lovely outside. Let’s go into the garden.” He followed Lucy out, where she slid onto a bench, and Hammond – making the most of the view – sat opposite. “You’re looking well,” he said.
“I feel loads better.”
“That’s good to hear.” He paused, “I’m here for a reason, but there’s nothing for you to worry about. I just want to get a couple of things straight.”
She fidgeted with her watch strap. “You’re still investigating Mum’s death?”
He nodded. “And we very much want to find out who was responsible.” He ran a hand through sweat-damp hair. “First Lucy, a minor point: when did you get your driving licence?”
“A year ago. I passed first time.”
“Well done.”
“Thinking back a little while – not very far – I want you to tell me about the time you drove Mrs Bloom’s Beetle.”
She said quickly, “I didn’t.”
“Think again, Lucy.”
The girl’s lips compressed. “I didn’t.”
“You took the key.”
“Yes.” She twisted her hair into a coil, pulled it in front of her shoulder.
Hammond gave her a quizzical look. “You took the key, but you didn’t drive the car.”
“That’s right.”
“You just sat in it?”
“I didn’t even do that. My bump was too big.”
“Why did you let Mrs Bloom and your mum think you’d driven it?”
She hesitated for a moment. “In case it showed.”
“Showed what?”
“I don’t know. Less petrol or something.”
“You didn’t drive the Beetle, but someone else did?”
Lucy looked down at the table, ran her finger along the grain. “Russ begged me. …He didn’t go far, he still had stuff to plant out. He didn’t even drive into town.” She took a quick breath. “God, they were livid, Mum and Diana, though they never knew it was Russ.” She looked Hammond in the eye. “It doesn’t change anything, you know. Whoever killed Mum, it wasn’t Russ.”
They sat in silence for a moment. “How well do you know him?”
“We used to chat at Mum’s.”
Tears glistened on her eyelids and Hammond changed the subject. “What’s that – shining in that shrub?”
“Which shrub?”
“Over there. Have a look.”
She swung round. “Oh, that. Harriet hangs up CDs. Keeps magpies off the other birds’ nests.”
“Is that true?”
“Yeah, they fly at them and get scared by their reflection.”
Hammond linked his hands behind his head. “How do you get on with Harriet?”
Lucy puffed out her cheeks. “She can be a bit weird.”
“How d’you mean?”
“Not really weird, I suppose. Just no sense of humour. Her mum’s quite different, she’s a good laugh.”
“And Harriet’s not ‘a good laugh’?”
Lucy leaned forward, lowered her voice. “She tells crazy porkies.”
Hammond continued to gaze at the whirling CDs. “Anything in particular?”
Lucy glanced quickly at the house. “She actually told me that Mum – my mum – was having an affair with Russ.”
“Did you repeat this to anyone?”
“Of course not, it was a lie.” She hesitated. “I’m only telling you because you’re who you are.”
Diana called from the kitchen window. “There’s a little man wants a feed!”
*
Hammond pictured the TV studio from a stranger’s viewpoint. Cameras at all angles; cables snaking along the floor. Journalists, notebooks at the ready or smart phones held high, all facing the table where he and Anne Morris were sitting with Cally and Pat Kerridge.
*
Cally put a reassuring hand on Anne Morris’s knee, and in case the woman was uncomfortable with the auto-cue, placed the appeal, typed in large font, where she could see it. Kerridge made the necessary introductions, explaining that Russell Sykes’s mother, Anne Morris, whose son had been missing for just over two weeks, would make an appeal for his return.
Mrs Morris, hands trembling as she took her glasses from her pocket, placed a forefinger on Cally’s words and leaned forward slightly. “Russell, if you are watching this, please put our minds at rest and come home. I hope you can imagine how worried I am about you. If you’ve lost your mobile, just borrow a phone and get in touch. Best of all, go to the nearest police station and ask them to contact North Yorkshire Police.” She paused, cleared her throat and held up a photograph of Russell Sykes. “I am appealing to members of the public to keep an eye open for my son. If you think you have seen him, please get in touch with North Yorkshire Police or your nearest police station. …Thank you.”
Against a background of journalists, each jostling for a better position, Cally rose and put a hand under Anne Morris’s elbow. “We’ll leave now,” she said. “Mr Hammond will deal with the press.”
Minutes later, in a café attached to the studio, Cally explained to Mrs Morris that they might have to expect all kinds of sightings of Russell: one or two of which could be genuine and hopefully lead them to his whereabouts. “Now folk have seen Russell’s photo,” she said, “he’ll be in their mind.”
41
The appeal produced a few barmy sightings: one caller cited Sykes as the ‘peculiar-looking’ manager of a local Tesco; another said he was the guy who ruined a Starbeck gardener’s chance of winning a prize for the largest marrow: since stuffed and eaten by a pot-bellied pig in Doncaster. Thirty-four sightings in all. All needing to be looked into. The owner of a pot-bellied pig in Doncaster called to point out that marrows hadn’t ripened yet. With no positive sighting of Sykes, and Kerridge becoming increasingly concerned, Hammond worked doubly hard on the impression that all leads were given priority.
*
On Friday, in the Lake District, in a lay-by not far from Penrith, two PCs on traffic duty, the senior a female, screwed up their teatime wrappers and thought about nicking a motorist. Pulling out into traffic, the driver asked her colleague what he thought of England’s selection of a new striker. PC Scott Fielding, less than interested in women’s football, made a joke he wouldn’t have got away with if they’d not been alone in the car. PC Sally Laycock said, �
�That’s sexist, is that.”
“Yeah, but you don’t care.”
She didn’t care, mainly because PC Fielding was as hot as they come. When Laycock put her foot down, Fielding asked, “Where’s the fire?”
“Toyota in front,” she said. “Bald tyres, bet you anything.” She drew level with the W Reg saloon, and PC Fielding signalled the driver to pull over. When he appeared not to notice, Laycock made it clear by overtaking and moving into the space in front. The driver saw sense, slowed, and both cars moved onto the hard shoulder. Getting out first, Sally Laycock walked to the driver’s side of the car. “Good afternoon, sir.”
The driver, mid-twenties and as grubby as his car, looked uneasy. “Something wrong?”
Laycock smiled prettily. “We need to look at your tyres, sir. Treads look worn.”
“Sorry, I hadn’t noticed.”
Fielding said, “Driving licence, sir?”
“It’s at home.”
“You can present it at a later date,” he said. “Meantime, get out of the car and we’ll look at the tyres together.”
Laycock, digging Fielding in the ribs, murmured, “Know his face, murder near Leeds. Photo’s been at Penrith a couple of weeks.”
Fielding said, “Get out of the car, sir.”
The driver took his time. “What’s this–?”
“Hands on the roof, please.”
The guy looked anxious, but did as he was told. Fielding felt under the man’s arms, continued down to his ankles, “Name, sir?”
“Have you got the right to do this?”
Sally Laycock said, “We have reason to believe your name is Russell Sykes.”
The man turned his head but didn’t move. Then, roaring like a lion, punched Fielding in the face, raced across the hard shoulder, barely made it over the barricade and charged into scrubby woodland.
Laycock turned to Fielding. “I’m after him! Call for back up!” With an Olympic leap over the barricade she gave chase and – while Fielding wiped blood out of his eyes and made the call – forced her way through the undergrowth until she found Sykes: prone after he’d presumably tripped on roots and gone slap into a tree.
Twisting his head, he looked up at her. “S’okay. It’s me.”
She straddled him, tightened her knees each side of his back. “Russell Sykes I am arresting you for attacking a police officer. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”
She rose while Sykes scrambled to his feet and a blues-and-twos horn blasted through the summer air. “That’s a relief,” he said, “I’m not sure how much more I could take.” Mouth sagging and arms hanging, Sykes waited as the police car screeched to a stop and two detectives, one young, broke through the trees and cuffed him.
*
At Browbridge Police Station, Sykes, without demur, had his photograph and fingerprints taken, his mouth swabbed for DNA, and accepted a change of clothes.
Denying the murder of April Parsons, but admitting to striking a police officer, he said yes to a duty solicitor. Though offered a phone call, he couldn’t face the thought of speaking to his mother.
Lawyer Gareth Blackwood sat beside him while Hammond, with Cally ready to take notes, sat opposite. Hammond switched on the tape. “Interview with Mr Russell Sykes timed at 20.55. Present are DCI Steve Hammond, DS Cally Burns and Mr Gareth Blackwood. The purpose this evening is with a view to determining Mrs April Parsons’s killer. At this stage the fact that Russell Sykes admitted attack on a police officer is held in abeyance.” Hammond paused. “Before we start, Mr Sykes, I would remind you that your fingerprints and DNA are confirmed as being found at the crime scene, including those on a belt used to strangle Mrs Parsons.”
Hammond took a breath and Cally said, “How did you first come by the belt, Mr Sykes?”
Sykes took a quick look at Blackwood. “I’m not doing No Comment.”
Blackwood sighed. “It’s your decision.”
“I bought it at a car boot.”
Cally raised an eyebrow. “Which car boot, and when?”
“I can’t remember, there are so many.”
Hammond asked, “Can you explain how, on Tuesday, 17th May, your prints and DNA were found in April Parsons’s treatment room at Spring House, Chapel Lane, Browbridge?”
“I’d been in the treatment room before. I’d had massages.”
Hammond said, “You’re assuming Mrs Parsons was killed in her treatment room?”
“It’s in the papers.” Sykes looked straight ahead.” I didn’t kill her.”
“Let’s be clear on this,” said Hammond. “Who did you not kill?”
A nod from Blackwood, and Sykes said, “April Parsons.”
Hammond said, “You’ll understand why I believe you may have wanted to avenge yourself on Mrs Parsons. She had recently let you know she no longer needed your services as a gardener and, according to a letter you received from her together with a cheque for £1,000, she no longer had feelings for you.”
“She didn’t say that.”
“Did you not find her meaning fairly plain?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Cally finished a note and, at Hammond’s nod, said, “Where were you, Mr Sykes, during the early hours of Tuesday 17th May?”
“I wasn’t always in the same place.”
“Perhaps,” she suggested, “you would give us a list of places. In chronological order.”
Sykes pulled at the corners of his mouth. “I’m a bit hazy.”
She continued. “Were you at any time at Spring House, Chapel Lane, Browbridge?”
Sykes nodded and Hammond said, “For the benefit of the tape, please.”
“Yes, I was.”
Hammond said, “Tell us about that, Mr Sykes.”
Sykes look at Blackwood, who nodded again. “I came back to see Mrs Parsons. I wanted to thank her for the cheque, and see if I’d understood her letter properly.”
Cally said, “You wanted to ask her for a second chance.”
Blackwood said, “Please don’t put words into my client’s mouth.”
Sykes turned to Blackwood. “It’s all right. That’s what I wanted.”
Hammond let moments pass. “Did you come by car?”
“Yes.”
“Which car was that?”
“My car, my Toyota.”
Hammond said, “Or were you perhaps driving a Volkswagen Beetle?”
Blackwood looked about to protest, when Sykes said, “You mean Mrs Bloom’s car?”
Hammond raised an eyebrow. “You tell me. …Did you see Mrs Bloom’s Beetle while you were at Spring House?”
Sykes shook his head quickly. “No.”
Hammond frowned, rubbed his chin, and Cally said, “But you entered the house.”
Blackwood opened his mouth, closed it again. His client said, “Yes.”
Hammond asked, “At what time?”
Sykes closed his eyes for a moment. “About three-thirty?”
Cally said, “You don’t sound sure, Mr Sykes.”
“I’m not. It was about three-thirty.”
“Wasn’t that an odd time to visit?”
Sykes said, “I’d come down from Newcastle. I didn’t want to leave it any longer. I needed to see April.”
Hammond said, “What were you doing in Newcastle?”
“Staying with a friend. Paul Pirie.” He paused. “You can ask him.”
Hammond leaned back. “You can be sure we will.”
Cally asked, “How did you enter Spring House?”
“I had a key, a back-door key. April liked to know I could come and go. Unless Lucy was around, of course.”
Cally asked, “Why would she not want you to come and go if Lucy was around.”
Sykes said, “She didn’t want her daughter to know we were lovers.” He paused. “Lately, though, Lucy’d been stay
ing with Jez Hemsworth, so she wasn’t usually around.”
Hammond said, “Did you get a chance to plead with Mrs Parsons? Ask her to give you a second chance?”
Blackwood said, “A private word with my client, please.”
Sykes turned to his lawyer. “I’d rather carry on. Tell it like it is.” He cleared his throat. “Like it was.”
Blackwood sighed, and Hammond said. “Good.”
Sykes said, “I couldn’t talk to her.”
Cally said, “Because you knew you were on a hiding to nothing?”
Sykes frowned. “I’m not sure what that means.”
“It means you already realized things weren’t going your way.”
Sykes swallowed, took a breath, “I couldn’t talk to April because she was dead.”
Silence hung in the air. Blackwood broke it with a cough. “My client–”
Hammond raised a hand. “Carry on, Mr Sykes. You found April Parsons dead.”
Sykes nodded. “In her treatment room.”
Cally said, “Tell us what happened immediately before you found Mrs Parsons.”
Sykes thought for a few seconds. “I’d looked in her bedroom. The bed was unmade. Next I went into the treatment room, and….” He tailed off.
Cally said firmly, “Describe what you found.”
“How do you mean?”
“For instance,” she said, “Mrs Parsons’s body. What was she wearing? Where exactly was she, in relation to the room?”
“She was on the floor. …Naked. …Strangled with a belt.”
Cally said, “The belt, Mr Sykes, that once belonged to you.”
“Not recently.” Sykes took a painful breath. “I couldn’t bear it, seeing her like that. She was lying in a heap. I couldn’t bear it. I lifted her up. Laid her on the treatment table.”
Hammond said, “Not difficult for a strong young man like you.”
Blackwood said, “Assumptions won’t benefit my client.”
Sykes ignored him. “She was soft. Her arms and legs flopped. I put her on her front and her head kind of found its way into the hole. I laid a towel over her legs.” He paused. “Once I’d got her like that I couldn’t think what else to do.”
Hammond said, “There was a phone in the room, did you not think of dialling 999?”