Ready or Not (7 page)

             
Diane nodded.

             
‘Your husband left the house at about quarter to eight that morning - is that correct?’

             
She nodded again and pushed a strand of greying wiry hair from her face. ‘He always left at that time,’ she said.

             
‘And he drove the same car every day, yes?’

             
Another nod.

             
Chris looked at Diane and wished there was something helpful he could say to her, rather than firing questions at her like an interrogator. What did you say to someone who had lost their husband in the way Diane Morris had? Sorry? Pointless: unless your own hand had killed him. And even then the word would be empty.

             
‘Diane, was there anyone you know of who may have wanted to hurt your husband?’

             
She looked up from her lap, surprised by the question. She shifted in her seat and rested a broad forearm on the arm of the sofa. When she smiled it was an awkward, forced smile. ‘No,’ she said, and for the first time there was strength in her words. ‘No. Nobody. Michael was harmless. He was a good man, quiet as a mouse. Why would anyone want to hurt him?’

             
‘I don’t know,’ Chris admitted. They had run checks on Michael Morris and questioned neighbours and colleagues late last night. All had given the same account: clean living, well mannered family man. Kept himself to himself; and no one had seen a thing. By all accounts, there was no one who could have had a motive for killing Michael Morris.

‘We think your husband knew his attacker, Mrs Morris,’ Chris said, unable to call her by her first name. The situation required a certain formality, Chris thought.

              Diane Morris breathed deeply and fought back tears. She looked away, avoiding eye contact with Chris. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said shakily.

             
‘You said that you didn’t hear anyone shout or scream, or hear any unusual noise between the hours of six and eight on Monday evening?’

             
She shook her head; her greying hair fixed in place with the cheap lacquer Chris could smell hanging in the air. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t hear a thing.’

             
‘And you hadn’t left the house since you arrived home just after five?’

             
‘I came back, unloaded the shopping that I’d bought on my lunch break and I was in with the kids for the evening then,’ she told him. ‘Well…until I went to put the bins out and then…’

             
She sobbed heavily and waved a hand, apologising for her tears.

             
‘Take your time,’ Chris said.

             
He too was unable to imagine how someone as apparently unassuming and inoffensive as Michael Morris could have warranted the attack that had ended his life. Not one of the neighbours reported having heard a cry for help, or any kind of disturbance in the street that evening. Yet Michael Morris was attacked face on, the point of impact on the hairline, dead centre above the nose. He had seen his attacker, yet he hadn’t reacted in the expected way. The fact that he hadn’t called out for help or tried to raise any kind of alarm suggested only one thing: that Michael Morris knew his attacker and hadn’t been expecting the blow that had taken his life. 

             
The expression on his face, Chris thought: disbelief. That was the word he’d been searching for earlier.

             
There was always the possibility that the attack was random, but in an area like this, with nothing stolen from the car or from Michael’s person, Chris very much doubted it. The look that was frozen on the dead man’s face said he knew his killer.

             
‘I’m sorry,’ Mrs Morris said, catching her breath and trying to steady her words. ‘I just don’t know why anyone would have done this. Michael was a quiet man. He went to work, he came home. His life revolved around us, around his family.’

             
‘He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all,’ Matthew said. Both Diane and Chris turned their attention to him, and for a brief moment Matthew thought that Michael Morris’ wife was going to throw the nearest available object at him. Her face tightened, taut with anger, but it was so brief that it had been barely noticeable.

             
As quickly as it had changed, her expression reverted back; her features collapsing into creased anguish.

             
‘I’m sorry for having to ask you all this again,’ Chris said.

             
‘It’s ok,’ she replied, raising a hand to her face. ‘You’re doing your job. I just wish I’d heard him, or known he was there. I may have been able to do something…’

             
She trailed off again and began picking distractedly at her nails. Chris couldn’t tell her that, even had she known her husband was lying in his own blood out there on the driveway, she would have been unable to do anything to help him or save his life. The blow was fatal and Michael was probably dead before he hit the ground. But how could that possibly be of any comfort to her?

             
‘If you do think of anything – no matter how small, Mrs Morris – do please let us know.’

             
Mrs Morris nodded and wiped at her face with her sleeve.

             
Chris saw himself out and Matthew, the obedient pet, followed.

             
‘What did you say that for?’ Chris asked, unlocking the car.

             
‘What?’

             
‘Wrong place, wrong time.’

             
Matthew got into the car. ‘Sorry,’ he said, anticipating Chris’ disapproval. ‘I didn’t mean anything by it. I mean, I thought it might make her feel better. You know, knowing that it wasn’t anything he’d done – it was just bad luck.’

Chris shoved the key in the ignition and turned sharply to Matthew. ‘Bad luck? You think? Yeah, I suppose having your skull smashed to

pieces with a hammer could be called ‘bad luck’, although there are probably more appropriate ways to describe it.’

             
Matthew winced. Chris wasn’t sure if it was the description of Michael Morris’ death that had affected him, or the fact that he was being reprimanded for his lack of sensitivity with regards to the victim’s wife.

             
‘Look, forget it,’ Chris said, waving the comment away and pulling off from the kerbside. Matthew hadn’t meant to be insensitive; he was young, he was learning, and he would quickly discover that if he couldn’t think of anything intelligent, revelatory or inspired to say then it was best he keep his mouth shut. ‘Just, next time, let me do the talking, right?’

             
Matthew raised a hand. ‘You’re the boss,’ he said quietly.

Eight

‘I want to make an official complaint.’

             
Nathan Williams’ bony elbows rested on the front desk; his greasy forehead pressed against the Perspex screen above the counter.

             
‘Regarding?’ the desk sergeant asked.

             
‘Regarding,’ Nathan parroted, ‘DI Kelly.’

*

Superintendent Clayton closed the door behind Kate and sighed loudly; an exaggerated gesture that expressed his opinions before he’d even opened his mouth.

             
‘Sit down,’ he said bluntly.

             
He sat behind his desk and distractedly pushed a pile of papers from in front of him. ‘Kate,’ he sighed. ‘What were you thinking?’

             
Kate exhaled loudly. ‘Boss, I…’

             
‘Sir,’ Clayton corrected her. He sat forward in his seat and laid his palms flat on the desk. He had hands like shovels.

             
‘Sir, I…’

             
She’d had her speech planned out, her justifications lined up ready for attack, but now she was faced with Clayton and that look he gave her – that look that said he was disappointed in her, as though he was her father rather than her boss – the words became tangled and she was unable to distinguish between the excuses. Unsure which explanation was likely to get her in the least trouble, she opted for saying nothing. She looked away, unnerved by Clayton’s moustache, which twitched unnaturally when he was restless. She could already predict the expression that would be fixed on his face and didn’t need to see it to understand its intentions. She had seen the same look from her father on too many occasions and now that he was no longer around Clayton seemed to be filling the blank spaces left for looks of disapproval. 

             
‘Go on,’ he prompted her.

             
‘I don’t think I’ve done anything unreasonable,’ Kate told him.

             
‘I have a very angry Nathan Williams waiting in reception,’ Clayton said, rolling his eyes. ‘A very angry Nathan Williams who is shouting police harassment and – in particular – shouting about you.’

             
The moustache flexed on his upper lip like a break dancing caterpillar.

             
‘Sir,’ Kate tried to reason. ‘I’m the DI on this case. Isn’t it my job as detective inspector to…well…inspect?’

             
Clayton sat back in his seat and moved his hands from the table.

             
‘Don’t be sarcastic, Kate,’ he said, although his voice was without censure. ‘You’re pushing the boundaries. Again.’

             
‘Sir,’ Kate said calmly, straightening her mouth into a tight line and gulping back an unsettled sick feeling. ‘Nathan Williams and Dawn Reed are not telling the truth. When I went to their house last night, Stacey’s bag – the one they told us she had had with her when she disappeared – was on the kitchen floor.’

             
She could hear the desperation in her voice and resented every quavering syllable.

             
‘And who else saw this?’ Clayton asked, raising his eyebrows, which were almost as bushy as his moustache. She could have predicted his response.

Nathan had obviously provided his version of events first. Whatever bullshit he’d come up with, Kate thought, he’d clearly given a convincing performance. Who was she trying to kid? He had Dawn on his side; it was two against one, and despite the fact that she was the DI on the case she was bound to come out of it facing doubt and scorn. These days, if she wasn’t being criticised for something she’d already done she was being judged for something it was expected she may end up doing.
No such thing as innocent until proven guilty in this place.

             
Kate paused. ‘No one,’ she admitted.

             
An uncomfortable and prolonged silence followed.

             
‘Exactly,’ Clayton said finally, leaning forward in his seat. ‘No one else saw it. No one else was there to corroborate your version of events. Once again, The Lone Ranger goes storming in and sees things that aren’t there.’

             
Immediately his expression changed and he moved uncomfortably in his seat. ‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ he admitted, raising a hand in apology. He had the good grace to look embarrassed and for the slightest moment Kate thought she saw his cheeks colour. She felt sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault. It was hers, all hers.

             
She bit her lip and shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter, Sir.’

             
‘It does,’ he argued. He stood and walked to the window, eager to turn his face from hers. He hated these conversations with her, and in recent years they had occurred with an increasing frequency. It concerned him that she could be so reckless, and that she no longer asked for advice. It worried him that she sometimes couldn’t see things that were right in front of her, and all too often saw things that weren’t. Kate was unable to separate her past from her work. He feared it might one day end up costing her the career she had worked so hard to build.

‘You’re under a lot of pressure and I realise that. I just don’t want…’

              He trailed off and there was an awkward silence.

             
‘What?’ Kate prompted.

             
‘Wouldn’t it have been a good idea,’ he suggested as he turned back to her, ‘if, had you been intent on visiting the Reeds last night – despite the fact that you were off duty – you had taken someone else with you. Someone else who would have been able to verify what you saw.’

             
Kate looked beyond Clayton and through the window. If she made eye contact with him she feared her emotions would betray her and the façade she had spent so long creating would be lost within a moment. Of course it would have been a good idea. In hindsight, everything could be done differently.