Murder... Now and Then (28 page)

Lloyd frowned. ‘It seemed to go all right to me,' he said. ‘ I thought she did a good job. I told her so.'

Judy suppressed a smile. ‘And if Bannister did go up there, then he can at least tell us whether Holyoak was alone, or with someone. Or alive or dead, come to that. If he was dead, then Anna has a lot more explaining to do.'

Lloyd still rocked. Judy looked anxiously at the chair legs. He'd had that chair ever since she had been at Stansfield; the legs had taken an awful lot of rocking. He had stuck to it through innumerable changes of offices, and of desks. It was like a security blanket, except that it didn't seem terribly secure to her. It wasn't even an office chair; they tended to be modern, and unable to be rocked. He'd had a swivel chair for a few months, but it hadn't appealed. So he rescued this one, which had been put back in the interview room it had come from in the first place. Rock on, Lloyd.

‘If he'd wanted revenge, he'd have got half a dozen bruisers to jump Holyoak,' Lloyd said eventually. ‘In my opinion.'

‘We need to know if he took the wallet, too. And maybe it wasn't revenge. Maybe it was self-defence – if Holyoak was as psychopathic as Anna seems to think he was, he might have gone for Bannister again.'

‘If Bannister took the wallet,' Lloyd said, ‘ he would take the money out and throw it away. There and then. He wouldn't risk having it found on him, not for one minute, whether Holyoak was dead or alive. And we haven't found it.' He sighed. ‘But all right,' he said, with real reluctance, and let the chair down at last. ‘I don't see there's much more we can do tonight that isn't being done by other people. No point in waiting for Bannister to arrive – we can't interview him tonight. He needs his beauty sleep, according to the custody sergeant.'

Thank God for that, thought Judy.

Charles had stayed late at his office in the clinic, working on the book he was writing about lifestyle, diet and good health. There were a lot of books like that of course, but they tended to be slightly cranky. Or very particularly aimed at women, or at men. Or at certain parts of the body, even.

His was a book aimed at entirely changing people's lifestyle; it covered everything, from exercise and diet and working practices to regular medical check-ups, smoking, drinking, and safe sex. It covered the environment the ozone layer, the rainforests, the polluted rivers and beaches. Using the world's finite resources to better effect. It was about how individuals could make a difference to themselves, to the world they lived in, to the future.

It was very nearly finished; he was playing with titles involving puns on his surname, principally to ensure that Gerry would be home and in bed by the time he walked over to the house.

It was almost midnight when he closed up his office, and strolled through the gardens. Gerry's car was there, and the house was in darkness. Thankfully, he let himself in, had the nightcap that he had assured his intended readers would do them no harm at all, and might even do some good, and went to bed.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to face Gerry again, he thought, as he lay down.

‘Zelda Driver, and her son Tim – Mark and Lucy Callender.'

‘So you're going to stand in Stansfield?' said Zelda. ‘Are they blooding you?'

Oh, God. Zelda was going to be Zelda. Charles had rather hoped that she would have come as a normal person tonight.

‘Yes,' said Mark, in his well-educated Scottish accent. ‘ New boys always get unwinnable seats. But I quite fancy my chances, to tell the truth.'

‘Stansfield's had a Labour MP for twenty years,' said Zelda.

‘Ah, but he's not standing this time. Perhaps the electorate won't feel so loyal to a new man. A union man at that – and look what the unions are doing to us! Besides, there's a big Scottish contingent in Stansfield, so I might have an advantage.'

‘Socialists to a man,' said Zelda. ‘You live in the town, do you, Dr Callender?'

He smiled. ‘Mark, please,' he said. ‘No, not at the moment.'

‘So you haven't exactly put your shirt on yourself, then?'

Charles left them to it. Mark would get some practice in with Zelda, he supposed. It wouldn't be so bad if Zelda wasn't Tory to her roots, but she was. Charles wasn't. He and Gerry had always voted Labour. ‘How are the preparations for the A-levels going, Tim?' he asked.

‘I'm doing a lot of revision,' said Tim. ‘I don't know if any of it's sticking.'

‘I remember only too well. What do you hope to do at university?'

‘Art and literature,' said Tim.

‘A career in the arts isn't too easy an ambition,' said Mark Callender.

‘Oh, he won't be doing that for a living,' said Zelda. ‘He's got the business, haven't you, Tim?'

Tim looked a little uncomfortable, and Charles decided that the time was right to change the subject. ‘Val – have you got a drink?' he asked, knowing full well that she had.

‘Yes, thanks,' she said, lifting her glass.

Vapid sort of woman, he always thought. Mousy hair, mousy clothes, mousy everything, really. Why Max, who had always been able to have any woman he chose, should have married Val, had always escaped Charles. It wasn't even as if she had been pregnant, which was the usual reason for men like Max marrying anyone.

‘Do you know Tim? Tim, this is Max's wife, Val.'

‘Valerie,' she said, shaking hands with Tim.

‘Val's doing A-levels at night classes,' said Charles.

‘Oh? Which subjects?' Tim sat down, and the awkward moment passed, as Zelda turned back to badger poor Mark, and Val bored Tim.

Of course, Max wasn't faithful to her. Charles knew that he had come to Stansfield because he'd got himself involved with the girl who worked for him, and wanted out. He had even met her briefly on their most recent visit to the Scotts, when he had called in at Max's office, partly to see him, and partly to see this girl that he was trying to get away from. Once he had got Max alone, he had asked what had happened to the girl he had told him about and Max had said that that
was
the girl.

It hadn't crossed Charles's mind that that could be the one he meant. She was no more than a child, for God's sake. Charles had told him in no uncertain terms what he thought of that; Max had mollified him a little by explaining that he wanted to leave
before
he did anything he might regret. At least he hadn't slept with her. But the idea of being tempted by a girl of barely seventeen – well, really. There was a limit. Max was over twice her age.

Max was in the kitchen, helping Gerry with the starters, and Tim had drifted off to join Lucy Callender, who was looking at Charles's collection of nineteenth-century political cartoons.

Charles didn't seem to have much option but to talk to Val, a pastime which could not, in his opinion, be underrated. He was heartily relieved when the starters made their appearance, and they could all sit down.

That had taken some thought; he had ended up with himself at one end of the table and Gerry at the other. Down one side, he had Lucy, Max (in the hope that he had more sense than to seduce a prospective MP's wife), and Zelda, and down the other Tim and Val and Mark. Though Mark had Val beside him, he was more likely to talk across the table, and would have Zelda's challenge tempered by his wife's support. He'd hardly have to talk to Val at all. Tim could get lumbered with that.

The food was delicious, he had pushed the boat out with the wine, and everyone did really seem to be enjoying themselves; Mark seemed to like sparking off Zelda, which was good, and while Max had rather captivated Lucy, the Callenders would be going away again at least until the election, and very probably for good, if the electorate of Stansfield ran true to form. Even Val became better company with a few glasses of wine inside her; he really had created exactly the sort of evening he had in mind.

If Mark
did
get in, Charles would have done himself a good turn, he was sure. And he was right; he did stand the ghost of a chance. He could scrape home, just. The mood was swinging right, boundary changes had brought in the farmers and the hunting set, and their solid Tory vote. Perhaps Charles would vote for him after all. He was a good man. And he had a point about the unions.

Judy pressed her cold cheek against Michael's, and asked him about Brussels as they walked through the airport car park, battling against the cold wind.

He had done pretty well, he thought. A number of people were interested. Michael sold computers, or at least that was how Judy described his job. He said it was more complex than that; he sold computer systems to offices and factories and airlines. And he believed that he might have made a sale in Brussels. He put his suitcases in the boot, and they kissed again in the car.

‘You're not still nervous,' he said, smiling at her as he released her.

She was petrified, and had been ever since Michael had suggested a weekend with his parents. She had put it off for months, pleading shift-work, overtime, anything she could think of. But the wedding was on the twenty-first, and she couldn't put the visit off any longer. The extension of the trip to Brussels, necessitated by his belief that he could pull off the sale if he stayed another week, had at least cut the weekend down to just some of Saturday and some of Sunday. She wasn't nervous; she was scared stiff. She said as much.

‘They'll like you', he said. ‘ They're bound to like you.'

She started the car after a couple of tries, and headed for the motorway, and the north. Lloyd laughed at her car, but it could produce a fair turn of speed once its engine warmed up, and it was altogether too efficient for her liking at getting them to Nottingham. There were no hold-ups, no traffic jams, no roadworks. None of the delays you could always count on, and she enjoyed driving fast too much to pass up the opportunity on a perfect day for it.

The traffic lights in the city itself seemed positively to bow politely and turn green as she approached. Nothing was going to delay it, nothing was going to prevent it. She was going to meet Michael's parents.

The house was in a terrace on a road so steep that it nearly needed steps; Michael's father came out as soon as they drew up, and opened her door.

‘You'll want to leave that in gear, ducks,' he advised her. She did.

Michael's father was an older, not so slim version of Michael. He took Michael's case and her weekend bag as he shepherded them towards the door. ‘We'll have the introductions once we're in out of the cold, ducks,' he said.

Michael stood aside to let her go in first. She wished he hadn't; she positively sidled into the small entrance hall, and a plump, dark woman came out of one of the doors.

‘Mum – this is Judy Russell,' said Michael.

‘Nice to meet you, Judy,' she said, smiling as though her life depended on it.

Judy smiled back. ‘How do you do … Mrs Hill,' she said.

‘Oh, none of that! You call me mum.'

Judy could never have called her mum, not in a million years. Anything less like her own city-dwelling, fashion-conscious mother wouldn't have been of the same species.

‘Well, you've found yourself a lovely girl in the big city, Michael,' said his father. ‘I'll take these upstairs – you go in and get a warm.'

Judy once again had to lead the way into a small sitting room with a coal fire burning. That was nice, she told herself. Cosy. They were nice. Welcoming.

‘Well, Judy. I expect you could do with a cuppa.'

Judy smiled her agreement, and wondered if she could smoke. She looked round at the gleaming tables, at the hearth, at the mantelpiece. The only possible ashtray she could see had a flamenco dancer on it, and it seemed to be an ornament. No smoking. She ought to be offering to help. She did.

‘Oh, no,' said Mrs Hill. ‘But come and talk to me.'

Michael's father came back as she went into the kitchen, and all four of them found themselves in there, watching Mrs Hill make tea.

‘So, Judy,' said Mr Hill. ‘ Michael tells us you're a policewoman.'

‘Well,' said Judy, ‘they call us women police officers these days, but … yes, I am.'

Mrs Hill poured the tea into china cups which were laid out on a tray with biscuits on a doily-covered plate. ‘You must have to deal with all sorts,' she said.

‘Yes,' said Judy. ‘There's a lot of variety.'

‘Still,' said Mrs Hill comfortably, carrying the tray through to the living room. ‘You won't have to do it much longer, will you? You and Michael will be married soon.'

Judy followed her through, the two men having stepped aside. ‘Er … well, I'm hoping to transfer to Nottingham CID,' she said. ‘It depends how well I do on the detective course.'

They all sat down; Mr Hill in his chair, Mrs Hill in hers, Michael on the sofa beside her.

‘Oh,' said Mrs Hill.

‘So what would you be doing then, ducks?' asked Mr Hill.

She looked at him. ‘ Investigating crimes,' she said, a little weakly. What did he suppose she would be doing? Composing symphonies?

‘He means would you be in an office,' interpreted Mrs Hill. ‘Instead of on the beat.'

‘I … well, yes. I mean, I'd be in the CID room. But mostly I'd be out. Asking questions – interviewing people. Door to door – that sort of thing.' She smiled. ‘They call it legwork,' she said. ‘I think detective constables do most of it.'

Mr Hill looked at her legs.

Mrs Hill raised her eyebrows, and Mr Hill stopped looking at her legs. ‘Ah,' he said. ‘ You've got yourself a career woman, Michael. Good for you, ducks,' he said approvingly to her.

‘Oh, I wouldn't say I was …' said Judy.

‘At least she won't have to wear the uniform,' was Michael's sole contribution to the conversation.