DARK CRIMES a gripping detective thriller full of suspense (12 page)

The students’ recollections of Donna were vague. Sophie knew how quickly friendships come and go during early adulthood, but she was nonetheless surprised. She interviewed them in a group, hoping that the memories of one might trigger others. No such luck. The only man, Alan Mathieson, was worse than useless, and at first seemed to resent being interviewed. The two female students did realise the enormity of the crime that was being investigated, but couldn’t add anything to what the police already knew.

Sophie sighed and sent Jimmy out for a tray of tea and biscuits. Mathieson, who had a hairstyle that seemed to have been shaped with a hedge trimmer, mellowed after his fifth chocolate biscuit.

‘Was she still seeing that guy?’ he suddenly asked.

‘What guy?’ Sophie said.

‘Oh well, maybe it was nothing.’

‘Please tell me. Anything might be helpful.’

‘I was going out with a girl from the town for a while. Went to a pub near where she lived a couple of times. I saw Donna there with a bloke.’

‘When was this?’

‘How do you expect me to remember that?’

‘Was it a year ago? Two years ago? Six months ago?’

He looked blank.

‘Well, how long ago was it that you went out with the local girl?’

‘We hung around together for a couple of months. We broke up last Christmas, because I didn’t fancy visiting her family over the holiday. Boring or what?’

‘And when did you start seeing her?’

‘At the Autumn Ball. She blagged a ticket from somewhere, even though she wasn’t a student. Cracking figure.’

The two women students rolled their eyes. Sophie just about succeeded in keeping a straight face. Even Jimmy Melsom looked amused.

‘So you went out with her for about four months? From September until Christmas?’

‘Sounds about right.’

‘So we’re talking about this time last year?’

He nodded. ‘Suppose so.’

‘And how many times do you remember seeing Donna in this pub?’

‘Only twice. I hadn’t realised she’d dropped out. I tried to have a quick chat. That was the second time. The first I just saw her in the corner of the bar. Didn’t speak.’

‘And what did she say when you spoke to her?’

‘Not much. I only had a chance to say hi, and then this tall guy comes back from the bar with some drinks. He gave me the evil eye and says for me to push off, but not as politely as that. And I was only trying to be friendly. Anyway, I wasn’t gonna argue. He had a bit of a nasty look about him. You know, confrontational. So I just waited for my bird to come out the loo and we left. I didn’t like the place anyway.’

‘Did Donna say anything at all?’

‘Not to me. She didn’t get a chance. As I backed away, I heard her say something like, “It’s fine, Andy, it’s okay.’’’

‘Andy? Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, pretty sure. My memory’s pretty good, you know.’ He grinned.

Sophie smiled politely. ‘And what about the pub? What was its name?’

‘Haven’t a clue. But I could take you there.’

‘Whereabouts is it?’

‘Near the station.’

Jimmy Melsom’s eyes widened.

‘Can you take us now, please?’ said Sophie.

‘No problem.’

* * *

They drove around the station area for several minutes before Mathieson got his bearings. He then took them almost a mile away to a pub in a quiet residential area.

‘I thought you said it was near the station,’ Melsom said. ‘We’re a good fifteen minute walk away.’

‘Sorry. We used to come from the other direction when I was with Carol. And I was often a bit pissed.’

‘Are you sure this is the pub?’ Melsom said.

‘Sure as sure.’

Sophie knew why Melsom was tetchy. Like her, he had probably thought that the pub might tie in with the Susie Pater murder. It turned out to be in a relatively well-heeled part of town. Sophie introduced herself to the landlord and showed him a photo of Donna. He gave it no more than a glance.

‘Sorry, we’re new in the pub. We’ve only been here since the summer, so we can’t help you.’

‘What about your other staff? Are there any who might have been here a year ago?’

‘No. We didn’t keep any of the old staff very long. The pub didn’t pay its way, which is why the brewery got rid of the last licensee. I run it with my wife and son, and we try to keep the overheads low. That way, we just about make a profit.’

‘Can you find a list of the staff who were here then?’

‘I think there’s one in the office, but they were a dozy lot, to be frank. Don’t bank too much on coming up with any useful information.’

‘What about your customers? Were some of them regulars last year?’ asked Melsom.

‘Worth a try, but our midday crowd are very different from the evening one. If she was here in the evening, then you’ll need to visit then.’

‘Can you make it this evening? Say about eight thirty?’ Sophie said to Mathieson.

‘Oh yeah, no problem.’

Back at the campus, Sophie phoned Kevin McGreedie. He agreed to join her for the evening visit to the pub.

* * *

Barry Marsh was dispirited. He’d revisited the houses that lined the eastern side of Townsend Mead shortly after eight that morning. He’d thought that the top-floor windows of the houses would have unbroken views across to the footpath that crossed the open grassland. But no one had seen anything. One houseowner had even taken him up to look out from a first-floor window to show how unlikely it would have been. The view towards the road, where they suspected the car had been left, was obstructed by low, grassy hillocks dotting the common. And even in broad daylight, it was difficult to pick out the features of the few people walking the footpath because of the branches from the trees lining the other side of their own lane. At night, anyone on the common would have been well-nigh invisible.

He left the last house. He turned and bumped into a plump woman bustling up the path, causing her to stumble and drop her bag. He apologised and helped her to pick it up. She told him she was the cleaner for the house he’d just left. He told her the reason for his visit.

‘In that case, you’d better come back inside. My Harry saw a car parked there on Monday night.’

Marsh apologised to the householders, and asked for a few minutes alone with the cleaner, a Mrs Jones. His day had just got a lot better. He guessed that Harry Jones was a bit of a rogue, since his wife was deliberately vague about what her husband had been up to late on Monday night. But she did remember how angry Harry had been about a driver trying to turn in the narrow lane just as he drove down the hill in his pick-up.

‘Crazy, that’s what Harry said. It was a wonder they didn’t crash.’

‘Did he say anything about the car?’ asked Marsh.

She didn’t know any further details, but told Marsh where he could find her husband. Marsh visited him at work.

‘An old Ford Fiesta. I think it was a red colour, but it was muddy.’

‘Did you get the registration?’ Marsh asked hopefully.

‘I think it was an 02, but the rest was too grubby to see clearly. I tried, but it was too dark. And they raced off like a blue-arsed fly, down to Corfe. I did notice that the car turned left at the junction with the main road at the bottom of the hill.’

‘You said “they,” Mr Jones. Was there more than one person in the car?’

‘I can’t be sure. It was all so quick, and the car scarpered sharpish, like. And it was a bit filthy. But there might have been another face. I couldn’t swear, though. It might have been a reflection. I can’t be sure, but I might have seen a car a bit like it filling up in the local petrol station a couple of times.’

Marsh thanked him and shook his hand. Harry stood watching him as he left, looking somewhat bemused — and relieved.

Harry Jones was lucky his pick-up hadn’t been inspected. It still contained some of the lead he’d stolen from the roof of the local manor house’s outbuildings on Monday night.

CHAPTER 10: Split Lip

Friday, Week 1

‘Is press work always like this?’

The reporter turned to the tall, heavily built man standing beside him. ‘What, the hours of standing in the freezing cold getting bored to death, followed by a couple of minutes of frenzied activity? Haven’t you got used to it by now? Or are you new? Weren’t you here a couple of days ago?’

‘I was only passing. Like today. Just thought I’d catch up on what’s happening. Not much by the look of it. I’m not with the press.’

‘Oh, there’s more going on than meets the eye.’ The reporter, Bill Rogers, thrust his hands more deeply into the pockets of his threadbare coat and stamped his feet.

‘Haven’t they already charged someone? It all looks pretty quiet to me.’ The onlooker hunched his shoulders and pulled up the hood of his jacket.

‘They need the evidence for it to stand up in court, even if they’ve got the killer. They sound confident enough when they come out to give us the press summary, but the official statements at this front entrance are only for show. Everything is set up for the telly nowadays. The main entrance here is very photogenic. It’s just the right place for them to come out and make reassuring statements. Joe Public will see, and think that it’s all under control. But the people doing the real dirty work go in and out by the side entrance to the car park. And they’re still hard at work, judging by all the comings and goings. Did you see the car that went in a few minutes ago? The silver Honda Accord? That was the boss, Detective Chief Inspector Sophie Allen.’

‘What do you mean?’ said the man.

‘She’s in charge of the investigation.’

‘I thought it was a bloke with a beard. He was on the news a couple of days ago.’

‘That’ll be the superintendent. Silver’s his name. He’s only the public face. His rank and above spend their time behind a desk. No, it’s her that’s the real boss, even though she’s only a chief inspector. All the murders get passed over to her. They even lend her out to other counties, she’s that good apparently. I got in her way once and, boy, didn’t I know it. I still bear the mental scars. I had to beg the paper to keep me on. Even then, it’s taken me a year to get back some of my editor’s faith in me. Apparently she went in to see him with the paper’s owner, and I was lucky to keep my job. One hard, clever cookie.’

‘Don’t papers have lawyers to deal with police pressure?’

‘Yeah, but they didn’t get a chance. Apparently she’s got a top law degree herself. She’s one of those really dangerous things, a clever cop. Shouldn’t be allowed.’

A pressman standing in front of them turned and spoke. ‘Couldn’t help overhearing you,’ he said. ‘Apparently they’re looking for a small, red car. No idea why.’

‘How did you find that out, Les?’ asked Rogers.

‘My brother-in-law runs a petrol station up the road. He just had a visit from a copper asking about any small red hatchbacks that might have been in. They asked him to keep quiet about it.’

‘So he phoned you, and now you’re telling us?’ Rogers said.

‘Well, what’s to lose? Maybe don’t spread it any further, though. Just in case.’

Just then a group of police officers came out onto the steps at the front entrance. Rogers nudged the man beside him.

‘The local boss, Tom Rose. He’s been giving us the press briefings. And look who’s behind him. Wonders never cease. She’s actually deigned to appear for the news update.’

‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Just a few minutes to give you a copy of this morning’s press statement. There have been few new developments. We are still holding Mr Vilis Berzins for questioning at this stage, and are happy with the progress we are making in our enquiries. Members of the public can rest assured that these are not random killings, and so their safety is not at risk. Are there any questions?’

There were several queries about Berzins. Rose explained that no details could be given out while the investigations were still ongoing.

‘Are you looking for a car that might somehow be involved?’ This came from Rogers.

Tom Rose paused before replying, ‘I have no further comments to make.’

Sophie Allen looked at the reporter and her glance flickered across the small group surrounding him. She spoke to Rogers directly.

‘We have several loose ends to tie up, Mr Rogers, that’s all. I’m sure you’d expect us to carry out a thorough investigation into a series of crimes as horrific as these. We would be failing in our duty if we did otherwise. Thank you for your interest.’

She directed a bleak smile at Bill Rogers. Then she turned and followed Tom Rose back into the building.

* * *

Shaz Fellows had a simple view of life. It was crap, and that went for most of the people in it. If you didn’t look after yourself then no one else would give a rat’s arse. They’d just dump on you instead. It was happening again, here and now, in the small Bournemouth café where she worked as a waitress.

‘Oh Christ, Vince. Why me? I’ve worked all fucking week, and now you want me to do the evening shift as well? I’m knackered.’

‘Paula’s just phoned in sick, and I need you to do the early evening cover. There’s no one else. And don’t swear at me. I’m your employer, for God’s sake.’

Vince’s reprimand sounded weak. Shaz knew that Paula, her fellow weekday waitress was pregnant, and was often too sick to do all her shifts. Vince needed her.

‘Please, Shaz. I’ll pay you time and a half, but with the extra as cash-in-hand. No tax on it. Okay?’

‘Yeah, okay. But I’m out of here at eight on the dot. And I’m not doing any cleaning. You’ll have to do that yourself.’

She flounced off to the staff toilet. She’d told Vince it was a cold sore, but her cut lip was difficult to hide. Once inside, Shaz began to sob. She looked in the mirror again, and dabbed a little more make-up onto the bruise on her right cheek. It was nearly invisible with its covering of concealer, but not so the cut lip. How had it all happened? She was completely confused. Admittedly she’d had a few drinks, but they’d been in the pub after all. What were pubs for if not to get a bit pissed in? And have a few laughs with your mates? Whatever she’d done to offend her current boyfriend, it hadn’t been bad enough to warrant those blows to her face.

She glanced again at the sorry-looking reflection in the mirror. Swollen lip, bruised cheeks and eyes puffy from crying. Was that really her? Well, it wouldn’t happen again. They’d only been together a couple of months, and if he thought that she felt enough for him to stay after he’d thumped her like that, then he was stupid as well as a complete tosser. She’d go home, put a few of her things into a bag and cadge a bed from one of her friends for the night. Tomorrow she’d get the landlord to change the locks on the flat, and that would be goodbye to Mister Bullyboy Bighead. The flat was rented in her name, for fuck’s sake. She’d had it for nearly two years. He’d only moved in a month ago, and had already started lording it over her as if he owned the place. He’d soon find out who was boss, the stupid wanker.

She dabbed at her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. The mirror showed her the tattoo on her shoulder, the heart with his name inside it. How much would it cost to get it changed or removed? One thing was for certain: it was going.