Almost Love (29 page)

“There’s a colleague that I can ask,” said Tom. “I mean Marie,” he added to Alex. She nodded.

“I suggest that you tell her as little as possible about what has happened,” said Tim. “In particular, please don’t reveal any specific details, for example about the open gate and door, or the smearing on the wall. Particularly not that. Please also be prepared to talk to us again tomorrow. We have your mobile numbers – we’ll contact you again as soon as we can. Juliet, could I have a brief word?”

“Of course, sir.”

She followed him out of the kitchen and down the area steps to the yard.

“I am going to stay here to brief the SOCOs. I’d be grateful if you would call on Mrs Allsop and also find out when it will be possible to talk to her husband. I’d like you to see him tonight, as well, if you can.”

Juliet nodded.

“What do you make of all of this?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. I think that Mrs Tarrant is telling the truth, yet she also seems to be holding something back – if that makes sense, sir.”

“I agree. Have you noticed how often Edmund Baker seems to crop up in her life – at least in the version of it that she gave to us?”

“Yes, sir; but they work in the same profession. It could just be coincidence.”

“There are too many coincidences in this case. The Tarrants have links to Claudia McRae and to Thobias Padgett, as well. As a police force, we’re conducting two major investigations at the moment, and they seem to be involved – apparently as innocent parties – in both of them. Don’t you think that that’s odd?” Without waiting for her reply, he added: “Tomorrow, I think that I’ll pay a visit to Mr Edmund Baker.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Detective Inspector Tim Yates arrived at the station at 7.30 a.m. the next morning. His intention had been to go straight on to the flat in Chapel Lane to wait for the SOCOs, who were scheduled to turn up at the start of their working day. He felt relatively happy and well-rested; he had reached home the previous evening to find Katrin in bed and sleeping, as he had expected. After some deliberation, he had eschewed the spare room and undressed as soundlessly as he could to climb in beside her. She had stirred a little and curled herself against him in her usual way. Although by the time he woke in the morning she had turned away from him and was stretched out precariously close to the edge of the bed, this was her normal behaviour. He got up quickly, without disturbing her; she was clearly in need of a lot of sleep at the moment.

Tim sensed that some of the accord, if not the passion, was returning to their marriage. As long as she did not hold some deep grudge against him, as long as the marriage itself was secure, he felt that he could tackle any other catastrophe. He would take Katrin to a really nice restaurant in the evening: try to discover what was troubling her. He berated himself a little for the clodhopperish way in which he had tried to force confidences from her yesterday evening, but self-immolation was not his forte. His mood was again sanguine as he swung the BMW into the station yard.

His bright plans for the day proved to be short-lived. He had yet to reach his office when he was waylaid by Superintendent Thornton.

“Ah, Yates, could you come to my office? Would you care for some tea?” Thornton added, swivelling his eyes across to the open-plan office area inhabited by Tim’s team. The desks were all empty. “It looks as if we shall have to make it ourselves,” he added.

Tim grinned. “That’s all right, sir, I’m happy to do it,” he said, more to save himself from having to drink the Superintendent’s tea than to avoid impairing Thornton’s dignity. “I’ll be up with it shortly, if you’d care to go on ahead.”

Superintendent Thornton nodded approval.

Tim was still waiting for the kettle to boil when Juliet Armstrong came into the kitchen.

“Want a cup?” he asked. She shook her head. “My mother’s staying at the moment, so I’m awash with tea,” she said. “I’ve got a bit of paperwork to do, but I think that when it gets to 9 o’clock I’ll go to the Archaeological Society to take a formal statement from Alex Tarrant.”

“Good idea. See if you can get more out of her than we did last night. I’m sure that she’s holding something back. Talk to her some more about Edmund Baker, if you can make it seem relevant and not too prying. I’m sure you’ll know how to handle it subtly.”

“Thank you,” said Juliet. Tim did not miss the irony in her tone. “Do you really think that she’s in danger, sir?”

“It’s difficult to say. I must say I’m very uneasy about the blood smear. I’m going to put a policeman on duty at the Archaeological Society for a few days, at least until the smear has been analysed, but you know as well as I do that if we can’t get any direct proof that someone’s threatening her, I’ll have to stand him down again. Thornton will be the first to point out that we don’t have the staff to put on protection details unless we can make a very compelling case. As it is, I won’t be able to extend the protection to evenings and nights. Let’s hope that husband of hers doesn’t get so engrossed in his work that he fails to come home at a reasonable hour.”

“Quite,” said Juliet, smirking.

“Talking of Thornton, I’m supposed to be taking him some tea.”

“That’s very noble of you.”

“Not really. He would have asked you if you’d been here – I could see he was casting around for you. He wants to see me about something, so I’d better get up there.”

Tim seized the two mugs of tea that he’d made while they were talking.

“Good luck!” Juliet called after him.

“There you are!” said Superintendent Thornton. “I thought you’d been milking the cow.” He laughed at his own witticism. “Shut the door, Yates. And sit down. Tell me, what are your plans for the day?”

“You’ll have seen the summary report that I e-mailed last night, sir, about the break-in at the flat in Chapel Lane. I’m convinced it’s connected with the Claudia McRae case. I thought I’d go there first to see how the SOCOs are getting on. Then I plan to go back to Helpston, to interview Guy Maichment again. He’s Claudia McRae’s nephew.”

“I’m aware of who he is. I’ve read your reports and I’ve got his name from Roy Little, as I told you yesterday. As you know, I’m keen for you to get on with the McRae case; progress on it has been far too slow so far. Far too slow. But there’s something else that I want you to do before you tackle Mr Maichment. You can leave the SOCOs to their own devices; you know that they won’t want you there and it’s unlikely you’ll get any results from their work today.”

Tim was annoyed. He wanted to ask the SOCOs some particular questions about the blood stains – or whatever they were – and he was afraid that the evidence might be destroyed without providing the answers unless he intervened.

“What is it you want me for, sir?” he asked blandly. Long experience had taught him not to challenge Thornton’s instructions head-on.

“There was an incident at a level crossing early yesterday evening. MacFadyen has written a short report and circulated it, but you may not have picked it up yet.”

“I saw it in my in-box, sir, but I haven’t read it.”

“Well, I suggest that you do so now. A woman got out of a car that was waiting at the crossing and threw herself into the path of an oncoming train.”

“Jesus! Was she killed?”

“What do you think? At first it looked like a straightforward suicide, if there is such a thing. Her husband said that she just got out of the car before he could stop her and ran towards the train. Apparently the woman – her name was Krystyna Baker – had a history of mental illness and was very depressed. In fact, she and the husband had just been to see a doctor when the incident occurred.”

“I’m not sure why you need me to get involved in this, sir. Isn’t it a job for the coroner?”

“It would be, if it weren’t for the fact that a young lad has since come forward to say that both the woman and the man got out of the car and that she appeared to be running away from him. The lad couldn’t say whether or not she was pushed, though he thought she might have been. Whether she was or not, his testimony certainly raises the possibility that either she was murdered outright or her death was engineered. But there are further complications.”

“Yes, sir?” said Tim, thinking that Thornton had introduced plenty of ‘complications’ already.

“The lad in question is an inmate of the children’s home in Sleaford. It appears that his talents include embroidery of the truth.”

“Should we take any notice of his statement, in that case?”

“I think we have to be reasonably sure that there is no substance in it before we dismiss it out of hand. We’ll need to interview the train driver and anyone else who was near the front of the train when it happened. British Transport police have already taken an initial statement from the train driver – he was pretty shocked last night, as you can imagine – but they’re seeing him again today, and I’ve asked MacFadyen to sit in on it. I’ve also asked him to try to get further witness statements from the train passengers. Fortunately the transport police had the presence of mind to take the details of those travelling in the first coach.”

“I’m not sure what you want me to do, in that case, sir.”

“Aren’t you, Yates? I should have thought it was fairly obvious. I want you to interview the lad – with an appropriate adult present, of course. But, even more to the point, I want you to interview the woman’s husband, see whether you think he’s above board. The job should suit you; it’s one for which you’ve had plenty of practice lately.”

“I don’t follow.”

“The chap – the husband – is another of those archaeologists,” said the Superintendent. “It’s very unlikely that this incident is related to the Claudia McRae case, but I must say that these people are getting very troublesome. Who’d have thought that people who grub in the ground all the time could make such a nuisance of themselves?”

Tim would have smiled at Superintendent Thornton’s latest expression of peevish outrage that a group of members of the public was not performing according to expectations if he had not been too busy putting two and two together.

“What did you say the woman’s name was, sir?”

“Krystyna Baker. Krystyna’s spelt in some foreign way, with a ‘K’ and lots of ‘ys’.”

“And the husband’s name? Is it Edmund?”

Superintendent Thornton consulted the notes on the desk in front of him.

“Yes. Yes it is. Is he known to us already?”

“I don’t think he’s got a criminal record, if that’s what you mean, sir; though of course we’ll check. But I have met him before. You may remember that I interviewed the County Archaeologist – his name is Oliver Sparham – at the Welland Manor Hotel shortly after Claudia McRae disappeared, because he’d called in on her the day before on his way to a conference at the hotel. I was briefly introduced to Edmund Baker at the same time.”

“An interesting coincidence – although, since every archaeologist in the area was probably at that event, not a very significant one.”

“No. But Edmund Baker’s name has cropped up again very recently. Last night, in fact, when I was taking statements from Alex Tarrant and her husband about their break-in. She mentioned Edmund Baker several times. She seems to have been seeing rather a lot of him lately.”

“She’s not an archaeologist as well, is she?”

“Not exactly, but she works with archaeologists: she’s the Secretary of the Archaeological Society. It’s in one of my McRae reports. As I said in my report of the break-in at her flat, it’s the smear on the wall that concerns me. It’s too similar to the one in Claudia McRae’s cottage not to be connected with it. Either they were both left by the same person, or that in Mrs Tarrant’s flat was daubed by someone who knew about the first one. You will recall that we didn’t make information about the McRae smear public, so only a few people know of it.”

“I hadn’t quite realised its significance when I read your report of the break-in,” said the Superintendent, with a guilty edge to his voice. Tim would have placed a bet on his not having read either report properly. “There are far too many coincidences here for my liking. I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do I, sir.”

“Well, perhaps what we’ve just discovered together will make you a little more accommodating about carrying out my request to see this Edmund Baker. Do you think that Mrs Tarrant is having an affair with him?” he added in a prurient tone.

“It had crossed my mind. Either that or he’s intimidating her in some way. Her husband seemed suspicious of their relationship. She herself admitted that she’d let him have access to the Society’s archive and take something away from it without going through the correct procedures – though she implied that she was just doing him a favour.”

Superintendent Thornton had lost interest. As Tim had observed on previous occasions, he had the attention span of a gnat.

“Yes, well go and talk to Edmund Baker, will you? There seems to be more to him than meets the eye. Show some respect for his bereavement, though. I don’t want him accusing us of insensitivity.”

“Of course.” Tim was irritated, but tried not to show it.

“And Yates? In view of all the ‘coincidences’, perhaps you had better call in on the SOCOs on your way. You’ll be better at spotting any further similarities between the two cases than they will. We don’t want them destroying any evidence that might help to find Dame Claudia, do we?”

“No, sir. Thank you. Good idea, sir.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Alex awoke early in a room with a low ceiling. She was lying in an old-fashioned iron-framed bed covered with a patchwork quilt that smelt of joss sticks. Tom was beside her, still sleeping deeply. For a moment, she wondered where they were; then she remembered that she and Tom had turned up on Marie’s doorstep late the night before, like a couple of waifs begging for a roof over their heads, and had of course been enveloped in Marie’s voluminous hospitality. This included being pressed to consume rather more Portuguese brandy than was wise on an empty stomach (although, when Marie discovered that neither of them had eaten, she had also produced a huge platter of bread and cheese accompanied by various pickles), with the result that she suspected that her feeling of disorientation was not entirely caused by the trauma of the evening before and finding herself in a strange bedroom.

Tom stirred. He propped himself on one elbow.

“What was all that about Edmund Baker last night?” he said.

“I don’t remember that Edmund was singled out,” said Alex. “What were you thinking of in particular?”

“Nothing
particular
,” said Tom truculently. “Just that it seems that every time something
non-routine
happens in your life, Edmund Baker has been there to hold your hand.”

“Really?” said Alex. “I hadn’t noticed. Perhaps you’re right, but before you read too much into it, just understand that from my point of view, Edmund is an inconvenience. He’s barely one step ahead of the other unreasonable old men that I have to deal with.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I don’t see why not. It is the truth.”

“Go back to sleep, Alex, and wake up when you have a better story to tell. And stop being so naïve. I can tell you for a fact that you’ve convinced that policeman that you and Edmund are lovers.”

“I don’t care what he thinks. I can assure you, though, that if that is what he thinks, he is wrong.”

“Wrong?” Tom echoed her with what was approaching a sneer.

“Just what are you saying, Tom? Because if you’re accusing me of infidelity, as if things weren’t bad enough already, I can tell you that I can’t put up with any more. Either you believe what I say, or I go. There’s no halfway house. I can’t put up with you trying to pick a fight on top of everything else that has happened.”

Tom’s face caved in.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to put more pressure on you; of course I don’t. But I don’t understand your relationship with Edmund, either – or rather, I don’t understand the way that it has developed over the past few months. You barely had a word to say about him before the last Archaeological Society conference. In fact, when you did mention him, I got the distinct impression that you disliked him. Now his name seems to crop up all the time and apparently you eat supper with him or go to meetings with him at the drop of a hat. Can you tell me why?”

Alex turned her head away from him.

“I don’t know. It’s not something that I’d noticed. I guess that at the moment we share more projects than we did in the past. It’s probably just a temporary thing. I’m sorry if you’ve found it unsettling.” Even to herself her words did not sound convincing.

Tom manifestly was not convinced, but he backed down.

“I’m sorry, too. I have no right to make unfounded accusations. I was already under pressure from the Padgett case before this break-in, or whatever it was, happened. That the police think that you might be in danger only makes it worse. Do you think that it has anything to do with Edmund?” Tom hesitated before he put the last question, but he felt compelled to ask it, even if it irritated Alex again.

“I can’t think why it should, but then I have no idea what I’ve done to make someone want to frighten me, either.”

There was a low rap at the door.

“I have brought tea,” called Marie’s sing-song voice. “I’ll leave the tray just outside the door.”

Alex smiled.

“You’re too good to us, Marie,” she said, raising her own voice a little. “We’re not on holiday – we’re not even invited guests, but gatecrashers.”

“Nonsense. No gatecrashers allowed here. You are honoured guests – you would not be here otherwise. It’s six-thirty,” she added more briskly.

“God, is that all?” said Alex in a low voice to Tom. She collapsed back against the pillows. “We could have slept for another half-hour. I still feel exhausted.”

“I’m sorry that she woke you so early, but it was because I need to get up myself. Marie and I have to leave for Sleaford in about three quarters of an hour.”

“Padgetts again?”

“Yes. I’m a bit concerned about DI Yates: he said we should stay close in order to be contacted. He might be annoyed to find that I have travelled so far.”

“Sleaford’s not a million miles away.”

“No, but I doubt if DI Yates will take that view if some copper has to be detailed to come out to me there.”

“I think that’s unlikely; they’re more likely to summon you back to Spalding. They’ve got your mobile number, haven’t they?”

“Yes. Now I must get up and see if the bathroom’s free for me to take a shower; and I haven’t brought a dressing-gown.”

“Neither have I, but Marie has left one out for us.” Alex gestured towards the tent-like, cerise-coloured cotton robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door.

“I’m not wearing that!”

“What choice do you have?”

“It won’t fit me!”

“Of course it will. We could both get into it!”