Kennedy 04 - The Broken Circle (6 page)

‘It’s funny,’ Jill said, ‘but I’ve always found him quite pleasant and approachable. I know he doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but he was certainly a bit wound up about Bradley Johnson.’

‘What do you know about him?’

‘Let me think.’ They walked on through the wood. ‘He used to be a miner, I gather. He’s a widower with a son and daughter-in-law living in the village. He has two or maybe three grandchildren and one of them is Hannah Brooks.

You know her, yes? She lives in Kelton and she’s standing as Conservative candidate.’

‘I know of her,’ Max agreed.

‘He’s a keen gardener,’ she went on. ‘He has a large garden and wins prizes for his stuff—vegetables mostly—at the village show. His granddaughter, Hannah, is expecting what, as far as I know, will be Jack’s first great-grandchild. But really, that’s all I know about him.’

‘And the fact that he’s a cantankerous old sod,’ Max muttered.

She grinned. ‘Well, yes. That, too.’

Chapter Five

At a few minutes after eleven o’clock the following morning, Jill was stamping her feet on the doorstep to Kelton Manor and trying to bring some warmth back to them. It was another bitterly cold day and, so far, she’d spent most of the morning on the phone to plumbers. For some inexplicable reason, they couldn’t accept that a boiler only working when it felt like it—as in on the occasional mild day—was an emergency. Wasting time on that, and getting nowhere, had meant she’d been unable to study form and, in the end, she’d phoned her bet through without having a good look at the runners or riders.

The manor was one of Jill’s favourite buildings, but it had lost a little of its charm since the Johnsons moved in. There had once been an impressive Victorian conservatory but that had gone, and a double garage, clad in stone, had replaced the old stable block. The main building, however, was listed and, standing square in its tree-lined and stonewalled garden, taking centre stage in the village, it was in a class of its own.

There was no bell, but the heavy wooden door swung open in answer to Max’s knock, and Jill pinned a smile in place for Phoebe Johnson.

Although they’d only spoken half a dozen times, Jill had found her to be a friendly, easygoing, relaxed sort of person. That, of course, was before her husband had been murdered. Jill hadn’t seen her since. She’d popped a condolence card through the letterbox, but, as they were almost strangers, she hadn’t wanted to intrude.

‘Hello, Jill,’ she said, ‘good to see you. You, too, Chief Inspector. Thank you for calling. I don’t suppose you’ve found anything?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Max said.

‘It’s early days, I know. Please, come inside.’

They stepped into the vast hallway and Jill knew immediately that, despite the problems being thrown at Phoebe right now, a temperamental boiler wasn’t one of them.

‘Come through to the sitting room,’ Phoebe said, leading the way.

It was the first time Jill had been inside the manor since her unsuccessful attempt to buy the place at auction, and it had changed considerably in the relatively short time the Johnsons had been in residence. Changed for the better, too. Where once had been many old, dark paintings, there were now pastel-coloured walls dotted with vibrant, modern works of art and rich tapestries.

The sitting room, which took up almost the same floor space as Jill’s entire cottage, boasted a deep pile cream carpet, sofas and chairs in a warm russet colour and, best of all, a log fire. A pile of condolence cards lay on a small, round table.

‘How are you coping, Phoebe?’ Jill asked.

‘Oh, you know.’

Jill didn’t. As she hadn’t mixed in the same exalted circles, she had no real idea of the relationship that had existed between Phoebe and her husband. Phoebe’s expression didn’t give much away, either. She looked pale and tired, and her eyes were a little bloodshot, but her blonde hair was as immaculately groomed as ever and her face bore just the right amount of make-up.

‘By the way, thank you for your card, Jill. It was kind of you. Everyone’s been so kind.’

‘It was nothing,’ Jill murmured. ‘I’m so sorry about your loss. It’s a shocking thing to happen.’

Phoebe nodded at the understatement. ‘The boys—my sons, Keiran and Tyler—are suffering dreadfully, too. They’ve always thought Kelton Bridge a terribly dull place where nothing ever happens. And now this. Their own father.’ She indicated chairs near the fire. ‘I’m sorry. Please, sit down. Can I get you anything? Tea or coffee?’

They declined the offer.

‘Were Keiran and Tyler close to their father?’ Jill asked.

‘Very close,’ Phoebe replied, ‘and my heart breaks for them. Like all of us, I suppose, they expected him to live for ever. You do, don’t you?’

‘You do,’ Max agreed.

Phoebe was in her late forties, and a very attractive woman. Tall and slender, she wore black trousers with a red blouse that was nipped in at the waist by a wide, black belt. She was graceful. Her hands, long, thin and expertly manicured, moved a lot as she spoke. From what Jill had heard, she’d been born to a fairly affluent family in New York but, perhaps because she’d lived in England for ten years, her American accent was diluted.

What struck Jill as strange was the way that, on moving to the village, Phoebe had been out and about wanting to meet the locals and become involved in things. Yet all that had stopped abruptly. About a month later, she withdrew completely and rarely seemed to leave the manor at all. Perhaps village life wasn’t all she had expected. Perhaps she found it boring after London.

‘You were going to provide us with a list of guests for the party,’ Max reminded her.

‘Yes, I’ve got it here.’ She walked over to a low, modern unit, pulled open a drawer and took out a few pieces of paper. ‘That’s the lot,’ she said, handing them to Max.

They were sitting on opposite sides of the fire so Jill couldn’t see the list. She couldn’t move, either, as Phoebe sat down next to Max and looked at it while he did.

‘Thomas McQueen,’ he remarked. ‘Were you and your husband good friends with him?’

Jill didn’t know how many names were on the list, but she wasn’t surprised that, from what had to be quite a few, Max singled out McQueen.

‘I’d never met him until the party. I’m not sure if Brad had, either. Having said that, they seemed to get along well,’ she answered thoughtfully. ‘I’m not sure you’d describe them as good friends, but they enjoyed a few jokes at the party. I’ve no idea how they met, though.’

‘McQueen’s a local businessman,’ Max told her, ‘mainly dealing in property. Is it likely, do you think, that he and your husband had business dealings?’

‘I can’t think why. If they did, I don’t know anything about it.’

‘Your husband wasn’t planning to buy property in the area?’

‘No.’

One by one, they went through every name on Phoebe’s list. There were thirty-six in total. It was a time-consuming job but it did show them that the guests had been present at Bradley Johnson’s invitation. His wife, apart from organizing the invitations and the catering—outside caterers had been employed—had little to do with it. She had hardly known the guests.

‘If your husband had been on his way to meet someone on Wednesday afternoon,’ Max asked her, ‘is it likely that he would have told you about it? Is it the sort of thing he would have discussed with you?’

Jill noted a flush on her cheeks. What was that about?

‘I think so, yes,’ she said, but Jill wasn’t convinced. ‘Of course, it would depend who he was meeting. If it was business, he’d probably think it would bore me.’ Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. ‘He always assumed that I couldn’t be expected to understand his business deals.’

Was she bitter about that? Did she feel excluded from his life? Had he treated her as if she were the dim blonde?

‘He was a good husband,’ Phoebe broke into her thoughts, ‘and a good father. He worked too hard, that was his only fault. His folks came from Texas and struggled to put food in their children’s mouths. He was always—’ she paused, searching for the right word—‘adamant that his children would have the best. I think he lived in fear of ending up with no money, of having to start all over again.’

‘That’s understandable,’ Jill murmured.

‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking,’ Phoebe rushed on. ‘You think it was my money, my family’s money at least, that attracted him to me.’

Jill shook her head, surprised. ‘I didn’t realize your family was wealthy.’ She’d heard rumours to that effect, but that was all.

‘It had nothing to do with that, you know. We fell in love. Twenty-six years we’d been married and he still loved me. He was a very loyal man. He wouldn’t have left me,’ she whispered.

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ Jill murmured.

What the hell had brought that on? Jill quickly reassessed the situation. Phoebe had loved him. Or hated him. Either way, she’d felt passionately about him. There was such a thin line between love and hate that it was difficult to tell.

Was it possible that, contrary to what Phoebe claimed, Bradley had been on the point of leaving her?

If so, would she have let him go?

There was a huge difference between a loyal husband and a loving one. A loyal husband stayed out of a sense of duty whereas a loving one stayed because he belonged.

Three blows to the head had killed Bradley Johnson. Presumably, anyone could have delivered those blows. Although fairly tall, he’d been a lean man without a spare ounce of flesh. Not a heavy man. It would have been easy enough for Phoebe to follow him, hit him over the head to knock him senseless, hit him again a couple of times to make sure he never drew another breath, drag his body a few yards, walk home, wait a few hours and then report him as missing. That way, he’d never leave her.

‘May I?’ Jill took the guest list from Max and glanced at the names. She knew very few of them, but that wasn’t surprising. ‘None of the guests are from the village,’ she pointed out. ‘Did any stay over?’

‘Only two couples,’ Phoebe said. ‘Ed and Martha Cooper—Ed’s been a friend of Brad’s for years, ever since we moved to England. He owns a hotel chain, and they live in Cheltenham now.’

‘And the other couple?’ Max asked.

‘Peter and Brenda Driver. I can’t say I know much about them, other than the fact they live in Manchester. I don’t know how Brad knew them.’ She pointed to the list, still in Jill’s hand. ‘Do you think the party is relevant? Do you think one of the guests might have—you know?’

‘We’ve no idea,’ Max said frankly. ‘At the moment, we have no leads at all. But if we talk to these people, they may give us something.’

‘I see.’

‘Are your sons here?’ Max asked. ‘We’d like a word with them, if we may. It’s possible that they might be able to tell us something.’

‘They’ve gone to Rawtenstall. Asda,’ Phoebe explained.

‘Life goes on, doesn’t it? They need to eat.’

‘Of course.’

Jill and Max were preparing to leave when a car was heard slowing to a stop outside.

Phoebe went to the window. ‘Here are the boys now,’ she said, and she sounded resigned, as if she didn’t want her sons involved in any of this.

Doors opened and banged shut as the two boys—adults, Jill reminded herself—brought in bags from the car. They were laughing. Their father had been bludgeoned to death five days ago, and they were laughing.

Phoebe left the room to talk to them and, a couple of minutes later, they followed her into the sitting room.

‘Haven’t you arrested anyone yet?’ Tyler demanded of Max.

Tyler was twenty-one, older than Keiran by two years. Both were tall, dark-haired, good-looking boys, but Tyler was a couple of inches taller and he was the one you noticed. Keiran would blend in a crowd; Tyler was too forceful, and too handsome to be ignored.

‘We’re doing all we can,’ Max assured him. ‘We think your father may have been meeting someone on Wednesday afternoon. Would you know anything about that?’

‘No.’ Tyler answered for both of them.

‘Keiran?’ Jill prompted, but he shook his head.

‘What would we know?’ Tyler demanded of Jill and Max as if they were idiots. ‘We weren’t even here. We only came home when Mum called us with the news.’

‘When does the term finish for Christmas?’ Jill asked.

‘A fortnight on Friday,’ Keiran told her. ‘But because of—everything that’s happened, we’ll stay here until the new year now.’

Jill nodded her understanding.

‘I believe you were intending to spend Christmas here anyway,’ Max said pleasantly. ‘What were you planning to do with your time? Had you decided? Had your father spoken to you? Were you going anywhere or doing anything special?’

‘We’d nothing planned,’ Keiran said.

‘We wouldn’t have seen anything of Dad,’ Tyler added. ‘He’d have been in London. Working. He was always working.’

‘Over Christmas?’ Jill asked doubtfully.

‘Yes. Over Christmas.’

Tyler was the angry young man. Keiran was quieter, and more difficult to fathom. Yet neither seemed as grief-stricken as Jill had expected.

They were no help whatsoever and, half an hour later, Jill and Max stepped outside and left the residents of Kelton Manor to their grief.

‘You’ll let us know as soon as you have something?’ Phoebe called after them.

‘Of course,’ Max promised.

‘I’m out all day tomorrow, but you have my mobile number, don’t you?’

‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep you informed of any developments,’ Max assured her.

Satisfied, Phoebe closed the door.

‘We’ll call in again tomorrow,’ Max said when they were in his car. ‘I want to speak to those boys alone.’

‘We?’ Jill queried.

‘Yes, it won’t take long.’

Max drove them out of the village and they were almost at headquarters when Jill reached into the back seat for the list of guests that Phoebe had given them.

‘I’m surprised Hannah Brooks wasn’t invited. Over the last two or three months, I’ve seen photos of her with Bradley Johnson. They would have been in the Burnley paper, or maybe the
Rossendale Free Press
. She was planting trees or opening supermarkets or some such thing and Bradley was there, smiling for the camera and telling everyone how marvellous she was and how everyone should make sure she was our next MP.’