Screaming Yellow (28 page)

Simon gave a nervous laugh. “Perhaps you’d better keep that to yourself. I am a man of the cloth, after all.”

They began to walk back to their respective houses. “I still think it wasn’t Richard.” Jennifer looked past her brother to Meinwen. “He’s definitely been framed. What if it was Mary who did it and then framed Richard to inherit the whole house as the grieving wife of a murderer?”

Meinwen stopped to lean on the graveyard wall. “I don’t think it was anyone in the household. For all their minor squabbles they are a tight-knit group of people, each defending the next.” She took off her shoe and shook it until a stone fell out.

Simon rubbed his face. “That doesn’t rule out the blackmailer, though. What if the blackmailer’s a member of the household even if the murderer isn’t?”

Jennifer looked back at the church. The sun had almost reached its zenith now, throwing the steeple into dark relief against the blue sky. The silhouette of the minarets at the base of the steeple gave the whole building the look of the Klingon
Daqtagh
dagger used for the murder. She shuddered.

“It’s possible.” Meinwen replaced her shoe and walked on. “But imagine, if you will, a young man, not very well off, who finds out a secret. He sees a way to make money from the knowledge. He doesn’t need the money but desires it nonetheless, for the acquisition of it is his weakness. He is not an evil man, but when the secret well runs dry and threatens to expose him, he kills out of desperation.”

Simon shook his head. “It’s an interesting tale but if you’re relating this to life you’re off the mark. Grace Peters committed suicide.”

“Did she?” Meinwen shrugged. “I have no proof, of course, but is it not possible that when she took her usual sleeping tablets this blackmailer gave her heroin and staged the hanging? Who is then to say she did not do it herself, either by accident or design?”

Jennifer gave her arm a squeeze. “It does seem a little far-fetched, dear, though I could use it as a plot for my next book.” She grinned. “He could be blackmailing her for sex.”

“Jennifer, please. We’re trying to be serious.” Simon pulled and they walked on.

“I am serious.” Jennifer punched him on the bicep. “Older women are sexy.”

“Let me continue.” Meinwen fell into step with them. “This blackmailer thinks that’s the end of it, but then discovers that his money pot told someone she was being blackmailed and may even have mentioned his name. What can he do about it? In a fit of desperation he takes a knife from the open case, plunges it into the back of the confidant and steals the letter.”

Simon laughed. “It all sounds very plausible when you say it like that, my dear, but I still think–” He was interrupted by the beeping of his cell phone. “Yes? That’s right.” His face went through a series of expressions as Jennifer and Meinwen watched. He finished with “I’ll be right there. Thank you.”

“What was that about?”

“That was the police,” Simon said. “They’ve picked up the stranger who asked for directions and they want me to identify him.”

Chapter 26

Jennifer balled her hands into fists. “An identity parade? How exciting!”

Simon put a hand on her arm. “You’d better go back to the house, Jennifer.” He tried to steer her in that direction but she shook it off.

“Not on your life. I was driving that night, remember? I’ve got as much right to be involved as you have.”

“She’s right, Simon. We’ll all go.” Meinwen began walking to the police station, looking back after a few yards. “Come on, slowcoaches.”

Simon grimaced. “Why does she have to come with us? She wasn’t there at all.”

“She does seem to have some insights into the case.” Jennifer skipped a step or two. “Come on, Simon. Don’t be such a naggle-puss.”

When they’d arrived at the station and introduced themselves to the desk sergeant, Inspector White came out, gave them visitors’ badges and ushered them through to the interview rooms.

Jennifer took in the shabby walls and nicotine-colored ceilings. “It’s a bit dingy, isn’t it? It looks much more salubrious on
CSI
.”

“It’s the cutbacks, miss.” White showed them into a room where a constable sat with a small CCTV monitor. “It’s all right for them to go spending millions on the new offices at Scotland Yard, but five grand for refurbishing this place was rejected because it was ‘unnecessary.’ You try telling that to the lads who work here.” He gestured toward the screen. “That’s the lad we picked up. Do you recognize him?”

Simon shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It was dark in the street. It could be him but I couldn’t swear to it. He’s not even wearing a hoodie anymore.”

White sighed.

* * * *

“Who is he?” Meinwen peered closer at the screen. “Do we know anything about him?”

White picked up a file. “His name is Jack Rogers, a student at Birmingham University who lives with his father there. He admits to being in Laverstone on the night of the murder but won’t tell us why. We can’t hold him for long without any evidence of wrongdoing.”

On the screen a constable came in to give the man a cup of tea. “Can we hear what he’s saying?” Simon asked.

White nodded and flicked a switch.

“Will somebody tell me what I’m here for?” Jack Rogers’s voice was thickly accented. “They said I was a suspect in a murder case and I’m scared shitless. I haven’t killed anybody. I don’t even know who’s been killed.”

The constable paused at the door. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t discuss anything about the case with you. I’m sure someone will be in shortly.”

“Shortly? I’ve been here two hours and that’s not counting the ride down from Brum. I have rights, you know.”

The constable said nothing as he left the room, the click of the lock echoed by the expression on Rogers’s face.

Simon pointed at the screen. “That’s him. I’d recognize that voice anywhere.”

“Yes. That’s him all right.” Jennifer clutched at the inspector’s arm. “Will you arrest him?”

“We’ve nothing to charge him with.” White extracted himself from her grip. “There’s no law against asking for directions.”

Meinwen smiled at him. “Inspector? I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

White shrugged. “It can’t do any harm I suppose. Father? If you and your sister will remain here? The constable will stay with you.” He nodded to the policeman at the desk.

He led Meinwen along the corridor into the interview room. Rogers looked up as they entered. White checked his watch.

“Interview with Jack Rogers. Fifteenth of April, Twelve-twenty AM. Present are Inspector White and Meinwen Jones, civilian assistant.” He sat. “Mr Rogers, you are a suspect in the murder of Robert Markhew at The Larches last Tuesday night. We have a witness who has testified you asked for directions to the house at approximately nine-fifteen PM, shortly before the murder.”

Jack shook his head. “I’m not saying anything. I didn’t murder no one.”

Meinwen leaned forward. “But you did go to the house. You went to see your mother, didn’t you?”

Jack sneered and folded his arms. “My mother? My mother left me when I was two years old. I don’t have a mother.”

Meinwen nodded. “You may not have a relationship with her, but you know exactly who she is. Should I ask the inspector to compare your DNA with the residents of The Larches?”

Jack shook his head again, his eyes lowered to the table. “No.” He unfolded his arms and looked at her. “There’s no need. All right. I was at The Larches, but only as far as the drive. I didn’t go into the house.”

“Is that where you met her?” Meinwen stared in his eyes.

“Yes, but it was only for a minute. I was gone ten minutes later. She can testify to that.”

“Just who is your mother?” White opened his notebook.

“Susan Pargeter. She won’t want it known she abandoned me, though. No one wants it bandied about they’re a bad mother.”

“What was the meeting for?”

Jack shrugged. “Guilt money. I’m a student, see. I need books and supplies and a laptop. Dad can’t afford it so I traced her and asked her.”

“Did she give it you?”

Jack nodded. “Five grand. She told me it was all she had.”

“When did you leave Laverstone?”

“I caught the eleven twenty-three back to Birmingham.”

Meinwen raised her eyebrows. “Two hours later? Why didn’t you get an earlier train?”

“I stopped to celebrate, didn’t I? Some pub between the house and the station.” Jack smiled, and his eyes sparkled for the first time. Beneath the frightened, sullen exterior he was quite a handsome young man.

“Can anyone verify that?”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe. The landlord or an old bloke called Tom. We walked to the station together. He was catching the same train.”

Meinwen touched his arm. “Tom? Did he have a last name?”

Jack shook his head. “Not that I remember.”

Meinwen frowned.

* * * *

Jean accepted the tea from Amanda and stood at the window. Outside, Peter was pruning the roses and mulching them with shredded bark. “When I came out of church yesterday you were talking to that Welsh woman. What were you talking about?”

Amanda looked down. “She found out who I was, ma’am. Who I used to be. I had to reveal the real reason why I was trying to speak to Robert that night.”

“To ask him for the money for your cosmetic surgery?”

“That’s right. Not just cosmetic, though. I’ll go mad without it.”

“If I inherit the whole estate, you may go ahead and have the surgery done privately.” She took a sip of the tea and glanced up at Amanda’s beaming smile.

“Thank you, ma’am. That will save me years of waiting for NHS treatment.”

Jean nodded. “I know. I looked up the figures for people waiting for the operation. The suicide rate is twice the national average. I’d rather keep you alive.” She reached across and slapped her on the bottom. “I’m sure we can think of ways for you to pay off the debt to me.”

* * * *

Meinwen was thoughtful as they left the police station and they walked part of the way back in silence. “Mind if we pop in to the White Art on our way home? I want to verify his story.” She jerked her head to indicate Jack Rogers in the interview room.

Simon pulled on a pair of leather gloves. “Fair enough. A snifter of brandy wouldn’t go amiss either.”

Jennifer perked up. “I could probably manage a gin. Just the one, though, or the roast will spoil.”

“And we couldn’t have that.” Simon patted her arm. “It would be such a waste when there are so many starving in Africa.”

Jennifer’s laughter faded in the face of Meinwen’s frown. “Something our mother used to say all the time.”

Meinwen nodded. “I see. I don’t think mine ever did, not that she had two pennies to rub together. She couldn’t abide waste, though. Whatever was left would go back into the pot for the next day.”

The pub was busy and they had to fight their way through to the bar. “That was a good sermon today, Father,” said one man as they passed.

“Aye. It was short,” said another, causing the group to laugh. Meinwen looked at the priest’s fixed smile and kept her own to herself.

“It’s not like you to come in on a Sunday, Father.” Mike grinned behind the bar. “What can I get you?”

“A brandy, a gin and tonic and a…” He looked at Meinwen.

“I’ll have a pint of the Heavy please, Mike.” Meinwen grinned at the barman, almost lost in the press of customers.

Simon fumbled in his pocket for the money but Meinwen slapped a ten-pound note on the table. “I’ll get these. Have one yourself.”

Mike poured the drinks and gave her the change. “Anything else?”

“Yes.” Meinwen leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Do you remember a young man in here last Tuesday night, about half-past nine? He would have been flashing money about a bit.”

“Aye.” Mike replied. “It’s always a bit quiet on a weeknight. Vodka shots he was drinking. He was here until eleven then dashed off to catch a train.”