Cold Sacrifice (28 page)

T
HE TWO BOYS WERE
mesmerised by the flickering screen. Shelley smiled as she watched them, tucked up together under a blanket, giggling at the antics of cartoon characters. She shivered and pulled her jumper over her knees as she sat hunched in an arm chair. Throwing her big old bed cover over the two kids when they complained of the cold was the best she could do. They seemed happy enough with the arrangement. Their two heads stuck up, side by side, motionless, Tom’s curly brown hair light compared to Joey’s darker crop. Shelley’s smile faded as her gaze lingered on Joey.

Shelley didn’t mind collecting Candy’s kid from school. It made no difference to her as she was there in any case, picking up her own son, and they lived in the same block of flats. If anything it helped her, because it entertained her Tommy when one of his classmates came home with them. In principle, the favour worked both ways. There had been a time when Shelley was regularly asked to stay late at the cafe, especially after two of the other waitresses were laid off. She had been only too pleased to do the additional hours whenever the boss asked her. But as the High Street grew quieter her overtime disappeared. Eventually even her basic hours were reduced. These days the place was barely busy enough to pay wages for two of them, let alone any extras. There was nothing Shelley could do about the loss of the additional income. She was lucky to have a job at all, so she was as pleasant as could be when the boss was around. She and the other remaining waitress grumbled incessantly whenever the boss went out, but they knew better than to rock the boat.

Shelley and Candy were both single mothers, both working. It made sense to help one another out. Only recently Shelley had been the only one collecting the two boys from school. It wasn’t Candy’s problem that Shelley didn’t need her help any longer, but nor was it Shelley’s fault her circumstances had changed. She had tried mentioning it to Candy.

‘So if you want to find someone else to pick Joey up, that’s fine with me,’ she had finished lamely.

Predictably, Candy had preferred to continue with their current arrangement. There was no reason for her to be dissatisfied.

‘Joey really likes Tom,’ she added, ‘and I know I can trust you. I can’t see any point in changing anything.’

It was bad enough being used as an unpaid child minder, only now Candy was late picking her son up. She was supposed to collect him before six, in time to take him down to her own flat on the first floor and give him supper before she went out. Shelley didn’t know who kept an eye on Joey while his mother was at work, but that wasn’t her business. Right now it was nearly seven and there was no sign of Candy. Shelley tried calling her mobile, but there was no answer. She would have to give the boys supper – she could hardly feed her own son and not Joey. Fuming, she decided to demand Candy paid for his food, at least. It was unreasonable to expect her to shell out for him, and as long as she put up with it, Candy would continue to impose on her.

‘Did your mum say anything about what time she was going to pick you up, Joey?’

He just squealed with laughter at the cartoon on the telly. He didn’t seem bothered that his mother was late.

The cartoon finished and the two boys began to fidget. Shelley glanced at her watch again. It was gone seven o’clock.

‘I’m hungry,’ Tom announced, sitting up.

‘Where’s my mummy?’

Tom flung himself on top of the other boy.

‘Joey can stay here. He can stay here with me. He can stay, can’t he, mum?’

Shelley tried Candy’s phone one last time, although she had given up any hope of her answering. It was nearly half past seven. Candy would be on her way to work by now. It was infuriating, the way she assumed Shelley would take care of Joey. This was the last time she was going to allow Candy to take advantage of her like this.

‘Come on, boys, it’s time for supper,’ she said in a falsely cheerful voice, ‘and then you’re both off to bed.’

‘Where’s mummy? I want to go home,’ Joey wailed.

Joey cheered up once he was tucking into beans on toast. He seemed perfectly content to spend the night at his friend’s flat. Shelley had the impression he was used to being moved around. The two children lay in Tom’s bed together, wriggling and squeaking. Shelley considered taking Tom into her own room with her. It seemed the two children would never get to sleep if they stayed in the same bed, but at last they settled down. Tom lay flat on his back, snoring softly, while Joey curled up beside him. Shelley couldn’t imagine abandoning her own son as Candy had done. Still, at least she knew Joey was safe and well cared for. It didn’t really matter that he would have to wear the same clothes two days in a row. Worse things could happen to an eight-year-old boy.

T
HEY HAD KEPT
H
ENRY
in overnight but would have to let him go again at the end of the day. Rob had managed to retain him in custody for a second time on the grounds that new evidence had turned up. The trouble was, they couldn’t prove the murder weapon had ever been in his possession. In the meantime, Henry had shown no signs of weakening. In a deadpan tone of voice he had acknowledged that although deeply shocked at the manner of his wife’s death, he wasn’t distraught at losing her.

‘We’d been together a long time,’ he had said, as though that explained his lack of passion.

Ian wondered whether it was inevitable a husband and wife would take each other for granted after a while.

Whatever questions were thrown at him, Henry had persisted in denying that he had anything to do with his wife’s death. If Henry remained firm, Rob was equally obdurate.

‘There must be something we can do to make him confess,’ he insisted. ‘Keep on it, Ian, break him, break him down. Find a way to crank up the pressure. You know we can’t hold him much longer. Just get him to confess, one way or another. Whatever it takes, just do it.’

They both knew perfectly well there was nothing either of them could say or do to try and force an admission of guilt out of Henry. Any evidence they put forward would be immediately thrown out if there was any suggestion of coercion by the police. Despite the constraints of constantly having to watch what he said, Ian supported the Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Prior to that, there had been no rules and regulations governing the treatment of suspects. But there was no question the restraints on police powers could be frustrating.

After a few hours in a cell and more hours of questioning, Henry was no longer composed. His hair was a mess, his shirt was creased, there were sweat stains under his arms, and he looked thoroughly disgruntled.

‘How am I supposed to get home? It’s chucking it down out there. And just look at my shoes,’ he added, raising one foot in the air.

‘Very nice,’ Ian remarked airily.

‘You’re not looking properly or you’d see how scuffed they are. It’s a bloody disgrace the way you treat innocent people in here. Who is it pays
your
wages, I’d like to know. Poor bloody mugs like me. And then some careless bugger goes and throws my shoes in a cupboard and scrapes the leather. Look! These are brand new shoes. What am I supposed to do now?’

He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his face contorted with exasperation.

Ian shrugged. ‘It’s a pair of shoes, not the crown jewels. They weren’t going to look new forever. Come on, I’ll drop you home. I’m going that way anyway,’ he lied.

It was possible Henry might let something slip if he thought he was speaking off the record; in reality nothing was off the record in a murder investigation.

The ploy failed. Henry was taciturn on the way back to Beltinge Road, answering only ‘Yes,’ or ‘No,’ or merely grunting in response to every question. Ian persevered, but learned nothing new on the short journey. Although he was reluctant to admit defeat, he was actually quite relieved when Henry got out of the car and he could finally stop trying to worm information out of him. He felt as though he had been questioning the man for days. Images of the hookers at the club slipped into his mind, not that he felt any real interest in them. Apart from the fact that he was a married man, he was too knackered. If he was honest, his decision to drive to Margate was partly influenced by his reluctance to go home. It was gone seven and Bev would be annoyed with him for being late again. He hated upsetting her, but lately he didn’t seem able to avoid it. He guessed she must have been expecting his work pattern to change once they were married. He was too tired to deal with another row and, besides, he was already in Herne Bay, halfway to Margate. It would be an inefficient use of his time not to go and call on Candy, in the hope that she might have something new to tell him.

The bruiser on the door dipped his head between his huge shoulders and stepped aside without comment. Ian didn’t recognise the girl on duty but she knew who he was and asked straight away if he wanted to see the manager.

‘I’m here to speak to Candy,’ he said, when he had been ushered into the small office where the manager was sitting behind his wooden desk, puffing on a cigar.

‘You just can’t keep away, can you?’ the fat man drawled.

He leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. Ian felt as though he was trapped in a treadmill, going round and round visiting the same places without making any progress.

‘Tell Candy I want to see her. Now. I’ll wait here.’

‘You could be waiting all night then, mate. She’s not here. Didn’t show up this evening.’

Ian had a sinking feeling. If Henry
had
paid Della to give him an alibi, Candy might have scarpered with the money. It was equally possible she had done a runner because she was heavily in debt. Or she might have done a bunk because she knew what had happened to her flatmate and the killer was putting the frighteners on her. Whatever the reason for her disappearance, there was no way of getting at the truth unless they found her.

‘I can offer you another girl. Your choice.’ Jimmy winked at him. ‘First one’s on the house. I can’t say fairer than that.’

Ian turned on his heel and strode to the door.

‘Come back any time you need some relaxation,’ the manager called after him. ‘You look like you could do with loosening up.’

With the manager’s mocking words echoing in his ears, Ian hurried away.

There was no answer when he rang Candy’s bell. He knocked, tried her phone, rang and knocked again. Still no response. Glancing round, he pushed the door. Pissed or high, she had forgotten to lock it again. It was an invitation to enter. Without hesitation, he slipped inside and pulled the door shut behind him.

‘Candy?’ he called out softly into the darkness. ‘Hello? Is anyone home?’

No one answered. Shadows in the hallway quivered in the light from his torch. With an effort, he tensed his arm so the beam shone steadily as he moved it around.

The hall was empty. It was silent in the flat. His senses strained for any sound as he gazed around at the walls, grey in the half-light. A soft scuffling startled him as his foot kicked against a shoe, shifting it across the threadbare carpet. Glancing down, he nudged it away to the side of the passageway before making his way forwards. He was careful not to make a sound as he stole towards the nearest door. A distant cacophony of noise started up in one of the flats upstairs. Someone was playing music that beat out a muffled rhythm through the ceiling. It was reassuring to hear sounds of life carrying on as normal, somewhere in the building. He had been irrationally spooked by the darkness and the unnatural silence. Realising that he was crouching, his shoulders hunched, he straightened up and relaxed his grip on the torch.

Taking a deep breath, he decided against turning on the hall light. He wasn’t supposed to be there. The sensible thing would be to turn round and leave. There was nothing to see in the flat. Girls like Candy and Della were paid in cash for their services all the time. No amount of money hidden in the flat could link them with Henry. It would mean nothing, even if the suspect’s prints were all over it. But there was a chance Candy might give him vital information, if he could persuade her to talk.

He paused for a second, aware that he was lurking in a prostitute’s flat while his wife waited for him at home. Then he continued to make his way furtively along the corridor. Mentally and physically alert to the thrill of danger, he couldn’t resist the rush of adrenaline flooding through him. Even in the darkness objects looked sharper than usual. Sounds reached him with astonishing clarity as the allure of a possible lead drew him into the flat, heedless of protocol. Without any clear plan he went into the kitchen and paused. Glistening in the beam of light from his torch, shards of glass shimmered at his feet. He raised the torch and saw that a window above the sink had been smashed, and hung open. Someone had broken the glass so they could reach in to undo the catch and climb through. A forced entry on the first floor. The front door unlocked for an easy exit. The intruder might still be in the flat. Ian held his breath as he silenced his phone. He hoped he hadn’t already put himself in danger by calling out from the hall.

I
AN HAD BEEN HOME
late every night for the past two weeks. He made the excuse that his time wasn’t his own when he was on a case, but when he was going to be late he used to make a point of phoning to let her know. Now she was his wife his attitude had changed. It was barely two months since they had promised to love one another ‘for better or worse’, since when he had been leaving her on her own almost every evening. He claimed that promotion was in the offing, and he didn’t want to blot his record. She had no way of knowing whether that was true. He never discussed his work with her, brushing off her questions by telling her she wouldn’t want to know.

‘Of course I want to know,’ she had protested, more than once. ‘Why else would I ask you about it?’

‘We’re not allowed to talk about the case until the details have been made public,’ he had told her firmly.

It was humiliating. She was his wife, but he made her feel as though he didn’t trust her not to blab about his investigations.