Lying Dead (25 page)

    ‘You’ve been here before, Keith. You know the score. You didn’t accept the evidence the last time, and it did you no good, did it? We’ve got an open-and-shut case here. Have a look at the tariff. Probably you didn’t even mean to kill her, it was an accident, and with the reduction you’d get for an immediate plea it could mean you’d be out in four years – three, even.’

    Still Ingles did not speak.

    ‘Cat got your tongue?’ jeered Allan. ‘Can’t find anything to say? Too hard to explain away, just like last time? Some people never learn!’

    ‘I can explain.’ Instead of being worn down, Ingles was gaining in confidence. ‘But there is no point in talking to you. I’ll save it until I can make a statement through my lawyer.’

    The officers’ frustration was evident. Kingsley looked coldly furious and Allan’s face darkened in temper. ‘You’ll talk,’ he blustered. ‘Oh, believe me, you’ll talk.’

    ‘We’ve a long time left.’ Kingsley’s voice was tightly controlled. ‘You’d be surprised how difficult it is to stay silent all that time, knowing that at the end of it you’re going to be charged. As you will be.’

After three-quarters of an hour, in which Allan and Kingsley between them had bullied, reasoned and even sat in silence themselves, Ingles had said not another word. At last, with a jerk of his head to his subordinate, Allan rose and left. As Kingsley joined him, he instructed PC Jack, waiting outside with an expression of lugubrious resignation, to keep an eye on the suspect.

    ‘Not working, is it?’ Allan said in frustration. ‘So where do we go from here?’ He looked hopefully at Kingsley. Jon didn’t like it when things didn’t go his way; maybe he could come up with something.

    ‘Stubborn bastard!’ Kingsley’s annoyance was obvious. ‘Not much point in waiting another couple of hours like this – I’ve better things to do.’

    ‘You reckon we should charge him anyway? Haven’t got much to put in a report. And then that accusation about forced confession – we just have to stick to it that he said he wanted to confess.’

    ‘Of course he did.’ Kingsley didn’t hesitate. ‘Changed his mind, clammed up.’

    ‘Right, right!’ Allan was saying, when DC Tansy Kerr and PC Sandy Langlands appeared in the corridor.

    ‘Hey, lads! Having a breather? Has he told his uncle Greg nicely what a bad boy he’s been?’

    Allan looked at Kerr sourly. ‘He’s in there, thinking about it. What are you two wanting?’

    ‘I’m to take over for a bit. Boss’s orders. She wants me to have a wee chat with him.’

    ‘And I’m telling you, there’s no need for that.’ Allan was outraged. ‘We’ve talked to him already, he’s denied it, and he’s decided he’s not saying anything till he’s got his brief. I’m in charge here – I’ll speak to Marjory later.’

    ‘I’ve had my orders.’ Kerr wasn’t giving an inch. ‘Anyway, is there any reason why not?’

    She could tell what he was thinking:
because you might succeed when we had failed
. Allan turned anxiously to Kingsley for backing. ‘Jon?’

    Kingsley shrugged. ‘You never know, Greg, the woman’s touch! I’ll come in and support you, Tansy.’

    Allan gasped in outrage at this shameless determination to be on the winning side, but Kerr was having none of it. ‘No, no, Jon, it’s all right. The boss suggested I took in Sandy to do his hand-patting act. See what a bit of sweet-talking can do.’

    Langlands grinned, and they went into the interview room, leaving the other two outside.

    ‘Well, thanks a lot for backing me up!’ Allan snarled and stalked off down the corridor without waiting to see if Kingsley had followed.

Jax Jones was something else. She had agreed warily to a visit and Fleming found a taxi to take her to a run-down terrace in the Northern Quarter of the city.

    Jax was a skinny bottle blonde with her hair tied on top of her head in what looked like a chimney sweep’s brush. She was wearing turquoise leggings and a yellow crop-top which exposed the tattoo of a pink rose on her hip. She was made up like a teenager, with green glitter on her eyelids and fingernails, but Fleming guessed she’d be lucky to see thirty again. She was chewing gum, and her accent was so strong that it took Fleming a minute or two of saying, ‘Sorry?’ before she got her ear in enough to understand what the woman was saying.

    Jax led her upstairs – ‘All bedsits, innit?’ – to a room where the bed in one corner was almost completely covered with soft toys of lurid hue and indeterminate species. There was a sagging curtain across another corner, a portable TV and a floor cushion as well as a chair covered in a purple throw.

    ‘You better sit there, I s’pose.’ Jax indicated the chair and curled herself up on the cushion, chewing rhythmically. ‘Watcha want, then?’

    ‘Jeff Brewer tells me that you and Natasha Wintour used to have a girls’ night out once a week?’

    ‘Believed that, did he? Well, that’s a laugh!’

    Fleming blinked. ‘You didn’t?’

    ‘Nah! Used to buy me a drink, then I’d do my thing and she’d do hers, no questions asked.’

    ‘Was she on the game?’ Fleming asked bluntly, leaving aside the question of what Jax herself did in her spare time.

    ‘Nah!’ she said again. ‘She’d a better scam going – chose some bloke from the bar, didn’t she, then he’d show her a good time and give her “presents”. Nice work if you can get it, right?’

    Reluctant to be drawn into discussion of the finer points of what did, or did not, constitute being on the game, Fleming moved on. ‘Was this usually the same man, or a series of men?’

    ‘Same man, for a bit. ’S what I mean, see? Always looking for some rich punter to take her on, but never stopped putting it about, in case she missed a better one. Then they’d twig and we wouldn’t see them in the bar again in a hurry. So she’d have to move on to another one. Told her once, didn’t I? “You watch it, my girl, stick to one while you still got your looks.” Don’t last long, do they?’

    Jax pulled a rueful face and Fleming realized she was older than she had thought, possibly nearer forty than thirty-five.

    ‘Did she ever tell you how she came to be in Manchester?’

    ‘Not really. Oh, said she’d been living with some old geezer but he threw her out – up to her old tricks, I’d reckon.’

    ‘And she never told you she was going away?’

    Jax looked down, picking at a chipped nail. ‘We-ell, couldn’t say it was a surprise, know what I mean? Not with Jeff always on about money, and her looking at him like he was dirt. Thought she’d just do a bunk, if you want to know, minute she got a better offer.

    ‘But here – what happened to her? You hear all sorts. Done you a favour, talking to you, haven’t I, so I want to know. Was it one of them in the bar did it? Got a right to know if I’m safe.’

    She sounded truculent, but Fleming recognized the aggression of fear.

    ‘No, I think you’re all right. I can tell you that someone in Scotland has been detained on suspicion of her murder.’

    ‘What’s that, when it’s at home?’

    Resorting to TV speak was the best chance of communication. ‘Our prime suspect’s in custody.’

    ‘Oh. Well, that’s all right, then. Just never know, do you?’ She digested that. ‘So – a Scottie, was she? Sounded like you, any road. What was her name?’

    ‘You knew it wasn’t Natasha?’

    ‘Do us a favour – Natasha, her? And Wintour – well, told me, didn’t she? Some fashion woman.’

    ‘Anna Wintour?’

    ‘Could of been. Didn’t like her own name, whatever it was.’

    ‘Davina Watt.’

    Jax sniggered. ‘Yeah, well, not quite Natasha Wintour, was it?’

    No, it wasn’t. As Fleming took a taxi back to the Cosmo bar, she thought about Davina Watt’s aspirations. She’d read herself somewhere about Anna Wintour, the editor of American
Vogue
, so icy and elegant that she was known to the media as ‘Nuclear’ Wintour. An aptly chosen name for Davina, who had created devastation in her own small world.

‘That’s that Rab at the door,’ Cath Dunsire’s mother said without enthusiasm as she came back into the sitting-room where she and her daughter, just back from work, were having a mug of tea.

    The blood drained from Cath’s face. ‘Fine,’ she said, with marked reluctance. ‘I’d better go and speak to him.’

    Jess Dunsire looked at her in surprise. ‘Here – what’s wrong, pet? Is there a problem? Your dad’s out the back – I could get him to tell him to go away.’

    ‘No, I’ve got to speak to him.’ Cath went out, but Jess did not sit down, looking at the closed door and listening with some concern. Just lately they’d been getting really worried. Rab McLeish had always been a bit of a problem and he was in with a bad crowd too. Cath was a good girl and she deserved better than that.

    Jess could hear the sound of voices, but not what they were saying: Cath’s quiet voice, doing most of the talking, then Rab’s, loud and getting louder. Then he was all but shouting, and her hand was on the door-handle ready to rush out and protect her child, when she heard the front door close and Cath came back into the room, looking white and wretched.

    Immediately, the bell began ringing and there was a pounding on the closed door. ‘Ignore it,’ Cath said, ‘he’ll give up in a minute.’ She picked up her mug in a show of indifference but her hand was shaking so much she had to set it down again.

    ‘Whatever’s happened?’ Jess asked sympathetically, but with hope in her heart.

    ‘I’ve told him I’ve finished with him. He’s upset.’

    ‘Oh, I’m so thankful, dearie! Your dad’ll be pleased – never thought he was good enough for his girl. And if he doesn’t stop this nonsense, I’ll phone the police.’

    ‘Don’t do that!’ Cath cried, alarmed. ‘He’s got problems enough already. The police had him in earlier about some vandalism at Drumbreck when he got back from his latest trip.’

    That confirmed her parents’ worst fears. ‘You’re well rid of him,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll just have to go myself then – no,’ as her daughter protested, ‘I’m not feart for Rab McLeish. I kent him when he was a wee boy, and I could sort him then and I’m going to sort him now.’

    The ringing stopped. After a brief exchange, Jess came back in. ‘That’s tellt him,’ she said, with some satisfaction.

    Cath was crying quietly. Before her mother could go to her, she got up. ‘I’m just away upstairs,’ she said and went past her to the door, her manner forbidding sympathy. She opened it, then turned.

    ‘I’m taking a few days off. Thought I’d go to Glasgow and stay with Lisa.’

    ‘That’s a nice idea, pet,’ Jess approved. ‘Lisa’s a good friend. She’ll cheer you up – you’ll come back feeling much better.’

    Her daughter’s face, as she went out, was tragic, and Jess, picking up her mug again, shook her head, smiling. These young folk! You always took everything so seriously at that age. Oh, she wouldn’t be young again, not for anything.

    Time for
Neighbours
. She clicked the remote, refilled her mug and settled comfortably back in her chair.

Chapter 13

Keith Ingles had got up and was standing by the small barred window, looking out, his arms wrapped across his chest like a protective shield. He turned as Kerr and Langlands came in.

    ‘OK, Kevin,’ Kerr said to the constable standing guard. ‘We’re just going to have a chat with Mr Ingles.’

    PC Jack nodded and stepped outside. Langlands set up the recording equipment as Kerr gestured to Ingles to sit down and took the seat opposite. She was quite clear about her brief. ‘He’s a professional man, a lawyer,’ Big Marge had said. ‘Greg and Jon will have gone in hard and either he’ll have cracked or he’ll have decided he isn’t talking. If that’s happened, it’s your job to persuade him to open up. Try reason. Don’t quote me, but I’m not sure that will have occurred to Greg.’

    Kerr identified them for the tape, then began. ‘Mr Ingles, I gather you’ve stated that you don’t want to say anything till your brief is with you.’

    Ingles, she realized, was staring at the green streak in her hair. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a good idea after all. ‘Mr Ingles?’

    ‘Yes, yes,’ he said hastily.

    ‘Would you let me tell you why you’d be smarter not to wait? We’ve evidence that pretty much drops you in it—’

    ‘The tarpaulin,’ he muttered.

    ‘DS Allan told you? Yeah, that’s right. But look at it this way. How do I know what you did? Maybe you killed her, maybe you didn’t. Maybe you think we don’t care either way, but that’s not true. If you’re innocent we’ll try to help you prove it. So if there’s an explanation, tell us. It could open up a new line of inquiry.

    ‘And once you’re charged, the balance shifts. Everything takes time. You have to talk to your lawyer, he has to talk to us, we have to agree to proceed – and the guys upstairs won’t be too keen on providing manpower to prove we shouldn’t have charged you in the first place. And in that time evidence can disappear. Can you understand that?’

    Langlands, his cheery face unnaturally serious, urged, ‘She’s right, you know. We want the truth, just as much as you do. That’s if you’re innocent, like you say you are.’