Kennedy 04 - The Broken Circle (30 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

On Friday morning, Jill was in interview room three alongside Max. Barbara McQueen, sitting opposite, looked confident and immaculately groomed. Her hair was just so, her clothes—red trousers and white shirt in linen—looked expensive, and there wasn’t so much as a single chip to be seen on her red-polished fingernails. She wore a lot of jewellery, all gold, all expensive.

Jill’s mind was wandering. John Barry had agreed to take part in an identification parade and Claire Lawrence had been brought up from Styal. Any minute now, the identification officers should let them know the result.

Jill was in no doubt that the man sent to threaten Claire was Barry. But would Claire identify him? Most witnesses found it an intimidating experience, harrowing even, and a lot were reluctant to openly accuse someone of a crime. Claire, still not entirely convinced that Tom McQueen was dead, was more frightened than most.

‘I owe you an apology,’ Barbara McQueen told Max softly. ‘I was distraught that afternoon—the afternoon we found my Tommy. I didn’t know what I was doing. But that’s no excuse. I should never have accused you of brutality. I know you were only trying to protect me.’

Trying to protect the crime scene more like, Jill thought.

‘I understand,’ Max replied, equally pleasant. ‘Talk me through what happened that day,’ he said.

‘Well, as you know, I went to the spa in the morning. I had a good long swim, a massage and a sauna. Then I had a manicure before going to the hairdresser’s.’

Jill applied lipstick each day. And that was it. Mrs McQueen was always immaculately turned out, but Jill couldn’t believe that the time, not to mention the money, involved in achieving the effect was worth it. If she had to spend her days being worked on to that degree, she would go mad.

‘What time did you go to the spa?’ Max asked.

‘I was there by ten o’clock.’

According to their reckoning, Tom McQueen had been killed sometime between ten and midday.

‘And it was after you came out of the hairdresser’s that we bumped into each other, is that right?’ Max asked her.

‘Yes. And you kindly bought me a coffee.’

‘And then you tried calling a taxi,’ Max reminded her.

‘I did. Except, as you’ve discovered, I was calling the wrong number. I was phoning home and there was no one there …’ She paused to dab at her eyes with a tissue. ‘It’s an easy enough mistake to make. I have the house phone, Tommy’s mobile, the hairdresser, the spa and the taxi on speed dial,’ she explained. ‘It’s all too easy to get confused and call the wrong one.’

Was it hell. Once maybe, but if you weren’t getting anywhere, you’d check you had the right number. At least, Jill would.

‘I’m sure it is,’ Max agreed smoothly. ‘The thing is, you told me the number you were trying to call was engaged. Now, as we’ve ascertained that you were phoning your home number in error, I wonder how that happened?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied.

‘According to our records, no one used that phone. There was no reason why you should have received an engaged tone.’

‘There must have been a fault on the line,’ she said.

The moisture in the eyes, the shaky voice—it was all an act. A damn good one, admittedly, but Barbara McQueen was a fake. She’d married Tom for his money, Jill would bet her cottage on that.

Max wanted them to be all sweetness and light on this first interview, but Jill was beginning to think that was a waste of time. Max could tread softly; Jill wanted some answers.

‘Your husband had sex with prostitutes,’ she remarked casually. ‘I suppose you knew that.’

‘A lot of men do.’ Yes, she was very cool. ‘What about you, Max? Do you indulge?’

‘Well, DCI Trentham?’ Jill prompted, giving him her sugary smile.

‘No, I don’t,’ he said finally, scowling at Jill. ‘I’ve always assumed they’re a last resort for men who don’t get it at home.’

‘Oh, they are,’ Jill lied. ‘I bet Tommy was a bit embarrassed really. A half-decent, young woman at home and the poor bloke wasn’t getting anything. Did he take kindly to that, Mrs McQueen?’

‘He got plenty.’

‘Really?’ Jill didn’t have to fake her surprise. ‘I would have thought you might have fancied someone younger. And someone fifty to sixty pounds lighter. Still, there’s no accounting for taste, is there?’

‘You don’t know anything about me and Tommy.’

‘True. Married to a gem like Tom and now you stand to inherit a small fortune. Well, a large fortune, in fact. The gods are really smiling on you, Mrs McQueen.’

‘You think the money’s any consolation for losing my Tommy?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many times have you called a phone number in error?’ Max asked her.

‘Loads.’

‘Care to give me a few examples?’

She smiled at that. ‘Sorry, but I’ve never taken notes.’

‘You get all sorts of nasty diseases from sleeping with prostitutes,’ Jill put in, pleased to see that Mrs McQueen was having trouble keeping up. ‘Protection gets forgotten or ignored. Have you been to the clinic to get yourself checked out? That would be a rather unpleasant legacy, wouldn’t it? No soreness? Inflammation?’

‘You’re so coarse,’ Barbara McQueen said with real disgust.

‘So I’ve been told.’ Jill shrugged. ‘It was just a bit of friendly advice. If I found out that my husband had been having it away with crackheads, I’d get myself checked out p.d.q.’

Barbara looked at her the way someone might look at slug slime.

‘How did Tom pay for sex?’ Jill went on, unconcerned. ‘Did he treat them to some crack? I suppose he did. It would cut out the middleman, wouldn’t it? There’d be no point his giving them cash, only for them to buy crack from him. That would be plain silly.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

She knew. The innocent, scatterbrained wife who spent half her life at the hairdresser’s didn’t exist. Never had.

Well, perhaps she had existed on that memorable train journey all those years ago, but something, marriage to Tom perhaps, had sent her packing.

‘He gave crack to young kids, too, didn’t he? As young as eleven. Still, get them addicted young, eh? Far more profitable. Did he fancy sex with those? The eleven-year-olds, I mean?’

‘OK, you’ve enjoyed your little joke.’ Barbara’s expression was glacial. ‘If you want to know anything else, you’ll have to wait until my lawyer’s here.’

Damn.

Barbara refused to utter another word and Max had no alternative but to suspend the interview until her lawyer arrived.

‘Nice going, Jill,’ he muttered as they left the room.

‘Sorry.’

‘And what was all that prostitute crap?’ he demanded. ‘What in hell’s name does that have to do with anything?’

‘She’s lived with Tom McQueen for years without poisoning him or shooting him,’ Jill reasoned. ‘Something’s happened. Recently. Something has driven her to murder.’

Max rolled his eyes. ‘Shagging the odd street girl was the least of McQueen’s crimes.’

‘True. But if you were Barbara, practically living in beauty salons and designer shops, spending your husband’s ill-gotten gains, what would suddenly drive you over the edge?’

He stopped walking to consider that, but he had no answer.

‘If it were me,’ Jill told him smoothly, ‘I’d be pretty annoyed—absolutely furious in fact—if I discovered he’d slept with someone else.’ She slapped a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh, sorry, you already know that, don’t you? I’m sure you can remember how—displeased—I was when you left me at home to spend the night with Miss Young and Attractive.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’

Damn it, she’d vowed never to bring that up again.

‘I’d be even more annoyed—yes, more annoyed—if I found out he was regularly shagging crackheads. And if he passed on an STD, I would probably kill him.’

Max was weighing up her logic.

‘On the other hand,’ she said with a careless shrug, ‘he might just have refused to buy her a new pair of Jimmy Choos.’

Jill had known she was at fault for making Barbara demand her lawyer, but, having vented her anger, she felt much better.

Max carried on walking.

‘Coffee?’ he asked her.

‘Please.’ And now she didn’t feel quite so good. ‘And I’m sorry I dragged Miss Young and Attractive into it. I was trying to make a point, but that’s no excuse, I know. I apologize.’

A reluctant laugh escaped him. ‘Jill Kennedy utters an apology. How much more surreal can this day get?’

‘Don’t tempt fate.’

With coffees from the machine in their hands, they went to the office where the sight that met them told them surreal had only just started. Fletch, all food abandoned, was lying on the floor, chanting, ‘Thank you, God! Bloody thank you!’

‘Are they bringing out a three-foot Mars bar, Fletch?’ Max quipped.

At the sound of Max’s voice, Fletch sprang to his feet and stood by his desk. ‘No, Max. It’s even better.’ His face was tinged red with embarrassment. ‘While John Barry was in Scotland, it seems that Mrs McQueen called him several times.’

‘Did she indeed?’

‘We think so, yes. We’ve spoken to the hotel’s receptionist—not the regular one, but the one that stood in for holidays. She claims to have taken as many as four calls in one day from a female calling herself Babs. Always from a phone booth apparently.’

‘So they were in this together?’ Max murmured.

‘It looks like it.’

‘At least we know Barry’s lying,’ Grace said. ‘I’m sure she would have mentioned the small fact of her husband being shot to bits in passing.’

‘We’d best have another chat with him,’ Max said.

They were on their way to see him when they heard the news. Claire, now heading back to Styal, hadn’t recognized anyone at the identification parade. Or so she said.

Jill wasn’t surprised. Frustrated, but not surprised.

‘I suppose it was a nice day out for her,’ Max remarked.

Chapter Thirty-Three

This time, on Jill’s advice, Max decided to play the nice cop with John Barry. It went against nature but, as Jill had pointed out, they needed his cooperation.

‘We need your help, Mr Barry,’ he said. ‘And if you cooperate with us, we’ll forgive your lies.’

‘What lies?’ he scoffed.

‘Lies about not knowing your boss, Tom McQueen, was dead. We have access to phone records,’ Max reminded him, ‘and we know just how many times you spoke to Mrs McQueen while you were in Scotland.’

‘Oh. OK then. Yeah, she did mention it.’ He wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I would have told you but, with the benefit of hindsight, it looks bad. I would have come back, but—well, to be honest, there didn’t seem much point. There was nothing I could do, was there?’

‘Perhaps not, but you must have realized we were looking for you,’ Max said drily.

‘It never crossed my mind,’ he said, all innocence.

His lawyer bent over and whispered something in his ear.

‘The thing is,’ Max went on pleasantly, ‘we’re interviewing Mrs McQueen and she isn’t being very talkative.’

A nerve twitched in his neck.

‘Eh? What’s she doing here?’

‘What did you find to talk about while you were in Scotland?’ Max asked, ignoring his question.

‘This and that. Why? What’s she been saying?’

Barry’s lawyer looked worried, too. The fact that his client had conversed with Mrs McQueen had clearly come as something of a surprise.

‘This and that? Could you be more specific?’ Max asked pleasantly.

He would love to throttle the man with his bare hands. Then again, his hands wouldn’t fit around that thick neck …

‘I can’t rightly remember.’

‘Explain this to me,’ Jill said casually. ‘If Mrs McQueen were to intimate that you murdered her husband, why might she think we would believe her? You weren’t anywhere near England at the time of the shooting, were you?’

Max winced at that, but John Barry’s reaction was of far more interest.

‘What?’ A vein pulsed in that thick neck of his. It was almost possible to hear his brain trying to make sense of that. ‘She told you—no, I don’t believe it. You’re lying.’

More brawn than brain, he looked as if he didn’t know what to believe.

‘She’s said all sorts of things,’ Jill murmured. ‘But why might she think we’d believe you murdered her husband?’

‘Because she’s crazy, that’s why. How could I do that? I wasn’t anywhere near. I was in Scotland. I was hundreds of miles away. You know I was.’

‘It’s very—what shall we say?—convenient that you were, as it turned out,’ Max told him.

‘What sort of woman is Mrs McQueen?’ Jill asked. ‘Is she the sort who would let you take the rap for her husband’s murder, do you think?’

His lawyer opened his mouth to speak, but John Barry was too furious to stop and think.

‘She’s an evil bitch, so yeah, she would. What’s she said?

It’s all lies.’

‘You’re quite sure that she can’t provide us with any evidence?’ Jill asked. ‘There’s nothing she could have—twisted?’

‘Evidence?’ His small, beady eyes darted from one to the other. ‘Of course she can’t give you evidence. There’s no evidence because I didn’t do it. She’s a lying, two-faced, evil bitch. Oh, no. She’s not laying the blame for any damn thing on me. It was her. Not me. Her, I tell you! I wasn’t even in the country. You know I wasn’t!’

Fletch was right; there was a God.

‘Her?’ Max repeated.

Barry’s lawyer put a restraining hand on his client’s arm, but it was immediately shaken off.

‘None of it has anything to do with me. You have to believe me. You were right about seeing Mr McQueen’s car—when that Asian lad, Khalil, was murdered, remember?

McQueen shot him. It was McQueen.’ Barry’s words were tripping over themselves. ‘Mrs McQueen found out and she asked me to get her a gun. Said she was frightened. Said she was scared that a bunch of Asians would come for her when Tom was away.’

‘You got her a gun?’ Max asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t she ask her husband to get it?’ Jill asked him. ‘Why you?’

‘I don’t know.’

He was lying. There was no way that McQueen would have used a gun on Khalil. Or anyone else for that matter. McQueen wouldn’t dirty his hands.