Scene of Crime (30 page)

“Mm,” said Lloyd absently. The security light, he thought. The security light was trying to tell him something.

“Telephone for you, Carl.”

Meg looked very pale. Carl had heard her moving about her bedroom all morning, and it didn’t take a genius to deduce that she had been packing. Finally, she’d accepted that the only possible explanation for Denis not telling the police he had been with his brother was that he had
not
been with his brother. She’d rung Alan, and after a tense, difficult conversation, he told her the truth.

Carl wasn’t sure how he felt about Denis’s activities. As a doctor, he strongly disapproved. He didn’t actually believe that all patient-doctor affairs were to be condemned; adult people were adult people. But Estelle had been a very vulnerable patient, and just a glance at her journal was all anyone needed to know that Denis had played on that vulnerability.

And yet, as Estelle’s husband, he couldn’t find it in his heart to blame Denis; he knew Estelle, knew only too well what that very vulnerability had brought out in him, and it was too easy to say that in his case it had been a desire to make her happy and in Denis’s it had been exploitation. It had been a little bit of both for him, and he suspected it had been a little bit of both for Denis.

He picked up the phone, and Sergeant Finch told him he could collect the items that the police had removed from the house on Monday night, as it was no longer necessary for the police to hold onto them. That was the first bit of good news he’d had since this whole thing began. He arranged to call at the Stansfield police station at eleven-thirty, and then, surely, he could begin to put all this behind him.

Tom put down the phone, and Lloyd pushed whatever it was he’d been studying so closely over the desk to him. “Read that,” he said.

Tom picked it up and saw that it was a list of when Watson’s security light had gone on and off, with rough timings. He looked up at Lloyd, still sitting on the corner of his desk.

“Dexter says that the light was on when he went into the garage,” Lloyd said, “then went out, and didn’t come on again until he ran away. And he swears he did not see a car.”

Tom looked at the notes as he spoke, and that was what they said. The light was on at approximately ten past eight, and went out almost immediately, coming on again when Dexter ran away, at approximately eight-fifteen. He frowned, not sure what he was supposed to be gathering from that.

“So when did Leeward leave?” asked Lloyd. “Before or after Dexter?”

“After,” said Tom. “Because if Leeward had left before Dexter, the light would have come on while Dexter was in the garage, and it didn’t.”

“So if he didn’t leave until after Dexter, why didn’t Dexter see his car?” He tapped the piece of paper in Tom’s hands. “Leeward got there
after
Dexter had run away, Tom. He found the house and Estelle Bignall just as he says he did.”

“Well …” said Tom.

“Think about it,” said Lloyd. “Dexter says the light was on when he ran into the garage. Why? Leeward didn’t trigger it getting in—it took him by surprise when it came on as he left.”

Tom frowned. It had.

“So it was triggered by someone else, wasn’t it? At about seven minutes past eight someone crossed Watson’s garden in order to gain entry to the Bignalls’ garden, and it wasn’t Denis Leeward, because his car wasn’t there until after that, or Dexter would have seen it.”

Tom didn’t want to believe it, but Lloyd was right. He nodded, then realized that if they were crossing Leeward off, they had nowhere to go. “But who was it?” he said. “We’ve got no more evidence, guv.” He stared at Lloyd’s notes as though they would send him some sort of sign.

“Oh, I think Leeward was right. I think
you
were right, all along.”

Tom looked up at him. “Ryan Chester?”

“He and Baz were there with the van, weren’t they? They’ve both admitted that.”

“Yes,” said Tom.

“Ryan and Baz were going to burgle the Bignalls’ house, which they thought would be empty. Baz was parked by the bus stop, and Ryan was going to go in, gather up everything he wanted to steal, then phone Baz to bring the van and back it up to the house. But he hit problems.”

Tom was listening, his face thoughtful, as Lloyd worked his way through what had happened.

“Problem number one, the back gates were locked. No matter, he can still get the stuff ready, get Baz to park the van in Eliot Way, and just do a few trips through Watson’s garden. He goes in that way, but he doesn’t stick to the back wall, so he meets problem number two.”

“The security light comes on,” said Tom.

“He hides until it goes out again. He hears what’s going on in the garage, but he doesn’t know it’s Dexter. He waits until it goes quiet, and he’s certain no one’s
about, and he breaks in. The light comes on again—there’s a bit of a commotion, but that comes to nothing, and he’s about to go to work and relieve the Bignalls of their property, when problem number three enters.”

“Estelle Bignall.”

“Estelle Bignall,” said Lloyd. “By this time he’s determined nothing’s going to stop him. He grabs her, keeps her quiet with his hand over her mouth, looks round for something, finds the tie and handkerchief set, and tells her that if she doesn’t make a fuss, she won’t get hurt. He gags her and ties her hands with the belt of her bathrobe. What happened then?”

Tom thought about it for a moment. “Watson got curious and went and had a look,” he said. “Ryan hears Watson coming, so he pushes her into the kitchen and waits until Watson’s gone.
That’s
why she was in the kitchen.”

Lloyd nodded. “She’s fighting for breath, desperately trying to get her hands free so she can pull off the gag. He sees the tape, tapes up her ankles so she can’t run for help, and then realizes she isn’t struggling anymore. He grabs a bag from the roll, sweeps up whatever he can from the dining room, and leaves, this time keeping as far away from Watson’s security light as he can. He gets out onto the road, gets on his mobile to Baz, and finds problem number five.”

“Baz doesn’t answer.”

“Then problem number six. A car is coming. He hides, and he sees Leeward get out, watches him as he goes through Watson’s garden to the house.”

Tom was nodding. “So he knows the break-in’s just about to be discovered, and he tries to steal the car to get as far away as possible. But Leeward comes back almost
immediately, so he takes off through the woods, and steals Hutchinson’s car instead, and tells Baz just to go home.” He shook his head, almost admiringly. “He told us most of that himself, crafty bugger.”

“Then he realizes that Leeward is the perfect fall guy, because he obviously didn’t report what he found in the Bignalls’ house,” said Lloyd. “And so he tells us about the Saab. Then he retracts that and makes up this business about being in the traffic jam. But Leeward saw him, so we can place him at the scene, whatever he’s saying now. And he’s admitted storing and selling the proceeds, and stealing the getaway car.”

Tom looked at his watch. “I think I’ll just take a little run into Malworth,” he said. “Pop into the magistrates’ court.”

Lloyd frowned. “Why?”

“Because Baz Martin’s up this morning,” said Tom. “He might get sent down—and if I know my man, Ryan’ll be there to support him.”

Ryan had lent Baz a tie; he always wore one when he was in court. It was amazing what a difference looking smart made. Wearing a tie in the dock could knock hundreds of quid off a fine, and a couple of months off a prison sentence, in Ryan’s opinion. That, and standing up straight, looking the chairman of the bench in the eye, and speaking clearly. They liked that sort of thing.

Christmas Eve. That might not be a bad thing—some magistrates didn’t like sending people down on Christmas Eve. But Baz had packed a bag—Stan wasn’t convinced he’d get away with a fine this time.

It had been a while since Ryan had been in the court at all; Baz gave his name to the desk usher, who was new, so
she didn’t already know it. Most of them did, like they knew Ryan’s. He sat down with Baz and nodded to a familiar face.

He had been coming here since he was fourteen. At first it had been the youth court and the public wasn’t allowed in; his mates would have to wait out here to see how he fared. But once he graduated to adult court, they could come in and watch. He had gotten better at evading the police, and obviously he wouldn’t choose to get caught, but there had been a sort of clublike atmosphere in those days that he almost missed.

Baz went off with Stan, and Ryan was reading a paper someone had left on a chair when he saw Sergeant Finch come in. He nodded to him, too.

Finch came over to him and spoke quietly. “Ryan Chester, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the manslaughter of Estelle Bignall,” he said. “You do not have to say anything …”

Stan was right. They had run out of suspects and were determined to get anyone at all so the papers couldn’t moan about them. He couldn’t prove he’d been in that traffic jam, his mother worked at the Bignalls’ house, his brother knew the house was empty on Monday nights, he had sold the proceeds of the burglary, and nicked the car that a stolen item had been found in. He didn’t stand a chance.

Finch had just finished cautioning him when an usher Ryan did know came out of one of the courts and smiled at him in the way people did when they had decided you were a hopeless case but they quite liked you anyway.

“Hello, Ryan. I didn’t expect to see you again this soon.”

She had the sweetest voice he had ever heard. She was
someone he knew. She was someone who had said his name many, many times, calling him into court. She was his guardian angel and his fairy godmother and Mother Christmas rolled into one.

But better—much, much better than all of that—she was the Pink Panther.

It was mid-morning now, and still no decisions had needed to be made; they’d brought him food, they allowed him exercise, and they put him back in his little room. When the hatch was opened and the key turned in his lock, it felt like an intrusion.

“You’re free to go,” said the custody sergeant.

Denis frowned. What did he mean? No one had interviewed him again. Lloyd had said they would be speaking to him again—advised him to get his solicitor. But that would have meant making a decision, so he hadn’t even thought about it. What did the man mean, he was free to go?

“Unless you’d rather stay,” he said.

Well, given that being free to go meant he was free to go home and face his wife and Carl Bignall, that he was free to appear before a disciplinary committee that would strike him off the medical register and end his career, that he was free to watch his life crumble into tiny, irretrievable pieces, yes. He would rather stay.

“Come into the office,” said Hutchinson, when the less than happy Tom arrived on his doorstep. “I can explain.”

The Pink Panther had corroborated every word Ryan
had told them. He had indeed been stuck in the traffic jam for almost ten minutes. In Hutchinson’s car. Rarely had one of his boss’s theories met with such a spectacular end, and Tom had driven to Malworth, his mood growing blacker by the minute. He’d known that Hutchinson was iffy; he’d known he was worried about something. And he’d swallowed all that stuff about his looking like a heavy for a loan company, and that was why Hutchinson didn’t want him checking up on him.

Hutchinson closed the door. “Look,” he said, “you’re a man of the world, I’m sure. It’s like this. As a rule, my calls take next to no time. No one wants to chat to a debt collector. Either they’ve got the money or they haven’t. If they’ve got it, they open the door and give it to me. If they haven’t, they don’t open the door.”

“So?”

“So, the lady in London Road was the exception to the rule. She didn’t have the money, but she did open her door. And we got to talking. She suggested we could come to an arrangement, if you know what I mean?”

Tom imagined he knew what he meant.

“So every week I put down in my log that I’ve stayed a couple of minutes here and three minutes there, and by the time I get to her, my log says it’s half eight, but it isn’t. It’s only eight o’clock. That way, I can … you know … spend some time with her without my boss or my wife finding out, and I tide her over the weeks she’s short, until she can pay me back. That keeps people who look a bit like you off her back, and everyone’s happy.”