Fault Lines (33 page)

She thought of another apology that had to be made and wondered whether she had the energy to put it into words. Collons had warned her that she would be at risk from the people who’d killed Kara and she’d laughed at him. She’d assumed that all his stories were the results of paranoia or an attempt to make himself interesting. Once again she had made assumptions about someone’s character and reliability on the altogether unsound basis of how he had made her feel. She should have known better.

Deeply ashamed of herself, she picked up the phone receiver again and dialled his number. When she heard his recorded voice she relaxed. Leaving a message was going to be much easier than talking directly to him.

‘Hello, Blair, this is Trish Maguire. I wanted to find out how you are and to tell you that I realise you’ve been right in so many of the things you’ve told me. If I’d been readier to believe you, I’d have escaped a pretty nasty experience. And I … I’m grateful for everything you’ve tried to do for Kara. I’ll see you again at the tribunal anyway, but perhaps we’ll meet in the meantime. Goodbye.’

It wasn’t very graceful, but it was the best she could do just then.

Waiting for the luggage on the carousel at Gatwick, Sandra hated having to stand next to Michael. Katie was supposed to be their buffer, but since neither of them had told her what was going on, she hadn’t realised. She would have to be told, and Simon too, when they collected him from his friend’s house. But it wasn’t going to be easy.

Sandra glared resentfully at Michael. She still couldn’t understand why he’d fallen for a woman like Kara Huggate – or why he was still trying to pretend he’d never had an affair with her – but she didn’t care any more. She just wanted him out of her life so that she could get down to rebuilding it for herself and the kids.

The luggage carousel jerked into action. Smart American bags came first, soon followed by battered old English suitcases, sets of strapped skis, buggies in falling-apart cardboard boxes, and then Katie’s dirty pink nylon bag with the scrunched-up white straps. Sandra was already reaching for it when Michael’s hand touched hers. They both leaped backwards as though their skin was burning then glared at each other as the conveyor belt chugged on, taking the pink bag out of reach.

Eventually they got all the bags on to the trolley, collected Katie, and started wheeling the trolley through the EU Customs channel. A slim man in his forties, wearing a pale-grey suit, appeared suddenly in front of them.

‘Michael Napton?’ he said, in quite a nice voice.

‘What is it, for God’s sake?’ Michael said angrily. ‘You can’t seriously believe I’m smuggling something. I’ve been on a family skiing holiday. We’ve a few duty-free cigarettes, a bottle of whisky, and some perfume. But that’s all. If you want to ransack our luggage, you’re welcome, but you’ll be wasting your sodding time as well as ours.’

‘Don’t swear, Michael,’ Sandra said. He looked at her as though he hated her. Well, that made two of them.

‘I’m not with the Customs and Excise, Mr Napton. If you would just step this way,’ said the man in the grey suit.

‘Why?’

‘I think you’d rather do this in private, sir,’ said the man, flicking open a small black plastic wallet to show a police warrant card.

Sandra stared at it in surprise, then looked back at Michael. His face was a peculiar greenish white and his eyes were quite blank. He looked as though he was sleepwalking.

‘Will you come this way, sir?’ said the man.

Michael nodded and opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, but no words emerged. He turned to Sandra, but he still couldn’t say anything. She saw that there were tears leaking into his eyes again.

‘We know about Kara Huggate,’ she said quickly. ‘We read about what happened to her in the paper.’

‘Mrs Napton, there’s no need for you or your daughter to wait,’ said the grey-suited man, as politely as ever. ‘We do want to talk to your husband, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t go straight home. I’m sorry to put you to inconvenience.’

‘That’s all right,’ she said automatically. ‘We’ll take a taxi. But what’s going on? Why do you need to talk to Michael?’

‘We hope he can help us with our inquiries, Mrs Napton.’

‘Inquiries into her death?’

‘Don’t, Sandra.’ The tears were now spilling down his face. People were staring at them.

For once Sandra didn’t care. ‘Michael, this is important. I need to know.’

‘Yes,’ said the police officer.

‘But it happened while we were away.’

‘Nevertheless there are questions we have to ask. But they don’t affect you, Mrs Napton.’

‘Go on home, Sandra. Take Katie and look after her. And forget about all this.’

‘I’m not sure I can. What do I do about getting him a lawyer?’ she asked the officer. ‘He’ll need one, won’t he?’

‘Don’t fuss, Sandra.’ Michael was beginning to sound his’usual irritable self. In a way it was reassuring. ‘I’ll deal with it. Get on home and take care of Katie. Have you got enough money for a taxi?’

She looked at him as if he was mad. He probably was. He was being taken off by the police to talk to them about a murder and here he was bothering about whether she had her taxi fare. He shoved a bundle of notes at her. She could see that lots of them were French francs, but she took them all the same.

‘Well, phone me if there’s anything you do want me to do to help.’

His dazed eyes focused. ‘You wouldn’t know where to begin.’

DC Lyalt came quietly into the interview room to put a folded piece of paper in front of Femur. Tony Blacker told the tape what was happening, then dismissed her with a brief, impatient gesture. Caroline’s lips tightened, but she obediently opened the door, hovering there in case Femur wanted her. He opened the note, apparently oblivious to their by-play, to read: ‘Michael Napton has been picked up at the airport. ETA 10 minutes.’

‘Thank you, Constable.’ Femur smiled at her to make up for Blacker’s irritability. She left the room, shutting the door quietly. Then Femur got back to business. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Bletchley.’

‘As I was saying, Chief Inspector Femur, it is outrageous that you are even intending to question my client,’ Bletchley said. ‘He has told you that he has no knowledge of the woman who was attacked in London last night. Still less of the unfortunate social worker who was murdered in Kingsford. That should be the end of both matters unless you’re going to charge him, and I can’t imagine what basis you might have to do any such thing.’

‘Sorry, Mr Bletchley. Chaz has been identified by both the woman he attacked in Southwark and the man who intervened to save her.’

Poor Bletchley looked as though he was having to work like a samurai to keep his feelings out of his face. Femur knew how he felt. He was finding it almost impossible to sit calmly at the table when all he wanted to do was take Chaz Chompton by the throat and rattle him against a hard surface until he admitted what he’d done to Kara and who else had been involved.

‘And the social worker?’ said Bletchley, successfully sounding disdainful. Femur just looked at him with pity and was glad to see he understood. He glanced quickly at his client, then back at the two police officers. Chaz Chompton just went on grinning at the lot of them.

The fury and disgust Femur had felt when he’d been faced with Blair Collons had been nothing to what was gnawing at him now. The cocky pleasure in Chompton’s face would have irritated the hell out of him in any circumstances, but reacting with his memories of the photographs of Kara’s body it brought him nearer to the edge of violence than he had ever been in his life.

But Chompton was sitting beside the best solicitor in Kingsford so Femur would have to play the interview very carefully indeed if he were to get anything useful out of it. He thought of all the various calming techniques he’d ever heard of, and even tried to see himself in his imaginary garden. None of it worked. Only the thought that if he didn’t get control of himself and his voice he might lose the chance of nailing Kara’s murderer kept him sitting quietly at the table.

‘So, I have a theory to put to you, Chaz,’ he said, with a fair assumption of tolerance. But Blacker looked sideways at him. He’d understood.

‘Oh, yeah?’ The boy was chewing gum, squelching the sticky plug between his teeth and his cheek. His dark eyes were hard and his lips permanently smiling, in spite of the chewing. He leaned back, so that his chair was balanced on two legs, and propped his pristine white trainers on the table in front of him.

‘You took a screwdriver with you to Trish Maguire’s flat in Southwark. A sharpened screwdriver, which you left behind.’

That was news to Bletchley, Femur saw, and highly unwelcome news too. Chompton opened his mouth to reveal the chewing-gum sitting bang in the middle of a very pink, very healthy-looking tongue. ‘Nothing to do wiv me. I never took no screwdriver nowhere.’

‘A similar home-made weapon, perhaps even the very same one, was used on the social worker who was murdered the week before last. But you knew that, didn’t you?’

‘You don’t have to answer that, Chaz,’ said Bletchley quickly.

The gum was transferred with maximum visibility to the right of Chompton’s mouth.

‘Yeah, I knew it was a screwdriver or a chisel. Everyone in Kingsford’s heard vat. It was all over ve papers, what he done to her. Animal.’ He grinned even more widely, then let his teeth close on the gum.

‘And what were you doing the night she was murdered?’

‘You don’t –’

‘No, vat’s right, Mr Bletchley, I don’t. I know my rights, same as anyone. But vere’s no reason not to answer. I was down ve club, wasn’I? Wiv the boss and some of ve other lads.’

‘They’ll confirm that, will they?’

‘Course.’

‘Which club?’

‘Lots. I can’t remember all ve names.’

‘I think that just about wraps it up, don’t you, Chief Inspector?’ said Bletchley, leaning forward in his chair as though he was about to get up. ‘You have my client’s statement that he did not go to this woman’s flat in London and that he knows no more than any other newspaper reader about the murdered social worker. You say you have some identification evidence, yet you’ve shown no sign of wishing to charge him. Unless you’re going to do that, I must assume that you’re ready to let him go.’

‘Good try, Mr Bletchley, but we’re not ready to let him go yet.’

‘I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Chief Inspector, that you have already held my client for close on twenty-four hours, and –’

‘Don’t worry, sir. The superintendent has already sanctioned a further twelve hours and we’ll go to the magistrates after that, if necessary. I’m awaiting some information from the lab, and I can’t let Chaz go until it’s come.’

Bletchley sat very still in his chair. Chaz Chompton stopped chewing for a second and slowly let his trainers slip off the edge of the table. But the grin kept his lips well apart, showing off his glistening teeth. As Femur watched, he pushed the gum out from between them, spreading it around with his tongue, stretching it, then he hooked it back behind his teeth and chewed happily. Femur thought of Kara’s body as he had seen it during the autopsy and with difficulty stared Chompton down.

‘No doubt,’ said Bletchley recovering himself fairly well, ‘when you have received your information, you will want to talk to my client again. I’m sure I need not remind you that he will not answer any questions unless I am present.’

‘That’s fine, Mr Bletchley. Now I’m sure you’d like some time alone with your client now. Tony?’

Blacker dealt with the tape, then followed Femur out.

‘Get on to the lab at once,’ Femur said, ‘and tell them to pull out all the stops. I need the results of the tests on the screwdriver as soon as they can get them. If Chompton used it on Kara, there’s got to be something, however carefully he thought he’d cleaned it.’

‘It’s not going to be the same one, though, is it, Guv? I mean, come on. If you’d done what he did to Huggate, wouldn’t you get rid of the weapon and make yourself a new one?’

‘Maybe, but he’s not so clever as he thinks.’ Femur rubbed his forehead. ‘If it hadn’t been for Bletchley – and the fact Chompton is afraid he’ll report anything said to Drakeshill – we might’ve got through to him. As it is … Still, we’ve got Napton next, who may be easier to crack. If so, we’ll have a lever to use on Chompton.’

‘How are we going to work the interview with Napton, Guv?’

‘That’s not your problem, Tony. I want Caroline doing that one with me.’

‘But, Guv –’

‘No,’ Femur said, with enough force to make Blacker’s face shut down in resentment. ‘I need you to get a warrant to search Chompton’s gaff. Take Owler with you and give it a good going over. I want anything that relates to Kara, any drugs, any offensive weapons, anything. Right? We’re going to need physical evidence.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Blacker still didn’t look happy, but he was going to have to put up with it. He’d be much more use collecting evidence against Chompton than treading the delicate line between sympathy and aggression that Femur was sure he’d need with Napton. Caroline could do the sympathy bit, and he’d handle the aggression. Blacker’s brand was a bit too fiery just at the moment.

‘In the meantime, I want you to get the squad pumped up and working at full throttle. Tell them about Chompton and Maguire and the screwdriver. Tell them about our suspicions of Drakeshill, on the grounds that he’s Chompton’s employer, and get them on to scouring every possible source for details of his activities. But don’t say a word yet to any of them about Spinel. We don’t need any divided loyalties at this stage.’

‘OK, Guv.’ All the resentment in Blacker’s face had been overtaken by anxiety.

‘What?’

‘When are you going to bring in CIB3 to deal with Spinel, Guv?’

‘Not till I’ve nailed Kara’s killer.’

‘It’s your shout, but –’

‘Right,’ Femur said, cutting him off. ‘When you get back to the incident room, tell Caroline to come down here.’

He went without any more protest.

As Femur waited for her, he ran over in his mind what they’d got so far. The identification of Chompton as the man who’d attacked Trish Maguire was solid, and the choice of weapon made it almost certain that there was a connection with Kara’s death. Chompton could not have been the original Kingsford Rapist: they’d checked as soon as they’d had Trish’s identification and found that he’d been safely banged up at the time of the rapes. That left Femur satisfactorily back with his original suspicion that someone had intended Kara’s death to look like the work of the Kingsford Rapist in order to hide his reasons for wanting her dead.