Stop Dead (12 page)

He threw his head back, laughing. Amy watched his Adam’s apple move up and down in his sturdy neck and knew she couldn’t risk losing him. Having longed to be free of her husband, it was ironic that the fulfilment of her wish had thrown her into poverty that might drive Guy away. She felt a surge of rage against Patrick. Even after his death he was ruining her life.

‘Let’s not rush into anything,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve just lost my husband.’

She raised her head and smiled to hide her desperation.

I
n the light of the DNA detected on Henshaw’s body, there was now some urgency about questioning his widow further so Geraldine returned to the large house in Hampstead later that afternoon. This time Amy was at home. The polished white door opened at once, as though she had been expecting a caller, an impression reinforced by her evident disappointment on seeing Geraldine.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Henshaw. I’d like to ask you a few more questions and then we’d like to take a routine DNA sample.’

When Amy expressed surprise, Geraldine explained that traces of a woman’s DNA had been found on her husband’s body.

‘A woman’s DNA?’

She sounded puzzled.

‘Yes. I appreciate this must be very difficult for you, but we do need to ascertain whether the DNA belonged to you or another woman was involved.’

‘Another woman?’ Amy echoed. Her expression hardened. ‘It was Stella Hallett, wasn’t it? I hope you lock the bloody cow up and throw away the key.’

‘What makes you think she’s responsible?’

‘Isn’t it obvious? With nearly a million pounds to gain, anyone would-’ She broke off, realising what she was saying. ‘Come on then, let’s get this over with. Do whatever you have to do.’

She turned and led the way to the back of the house.

Geraldine glanced admiringly around a spacious kitchen, elegantly appointed. A huge square picture window overlooked a series of narrow terraced gardens which led down to a row of trees.

‘What a lovely view.’

‘Patrick did the garden,’ Amy said curtly as she perched on a padded kitchen chair holding herself stiffly upright.

‘Where were you on Sunday night?’

‘Here.’

A dark red flush rose from Amy’s throat to her cheeks.

‘Were you here all evening?’

‘Yes … er …’

Amy fell silent.

‘Mrs Henshaw?’

‘Well, I might’ve gone out briefly – to post a letter –’

Amy gazed helplessly around the immaculate kitchen. Once again, Geraldine was sure the widow was lying. She gave her an encouraging smile.

‘That’s fine. The post mark will confirm what you’ve told me. Which letter box did you use, and who was the letter addressed to?’

‘No – I mean, I could be wrong. I’m so confused right now. It might not have been Sunday. I can’t remember. I really can’t remember.’

Geraldine read aloud from the notes she had taken down, careful not to betray any hint of the scepticism she was feeling.

‘So you were here at home on Sunday evening. You might have gone out to post a letter, but if you did you returned home straight away and didn’t go out again, is that right?’

Amy nodded.

‘Is there anyone who can confirm you were here all night?’

‘No. I told you, Patrick didn’t come home. I was here on my own.’

Her worried expression cleared.

‘I tell you what, my cleaning lady came round first thing Monday morning. She’ll tell you I was here. Ask Christina.’

Geraldine didn’t reveal that she had already spoken to the cleaning lady.

‘Tell me about your affair,’ Geraldine hazarded, impatient to move things on.

‘Affair?’

Amy arched her eyebrows with an expression of surprise that was also wary.

‘What affair?’

‘We know you’re having an affair with a young man,’ Geraldine said softly. ‘It’s no use pretending otherwise. And it’s not clever to lie about it, not when we’re investigating a murder. It’s better not to keep secrets at a time like this.’

Amy rose to her feet, agitated. Her shoulders slumped forward but her eyes were defiant.

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know what you’re implying, but it seems you’ve been listening to some silly gossip. Who have you been speaking to? Where did you get hold of this ridiculous idea?’ She paused, gulping to catch her breath. ‘I loved my husband. Patrick was everything to me.’

There was no mistaking the genuine emotion in Amy’s voice. At the same time, there was no way of knowing whether it was driven by grief for her husband or fear of discovery that she had been implicated in his death.

In the face of Amy’s consternation, Geraldine wondered whether Christina had been telling the truth. It was feasible her account had been mistaken, or malicious.

‘Mrs Henshaw, please sit down. Good. Now, you were having an affair, that much we know.’

She hoped it wasn’t a false accusation.

‘It would be far better for you if you simply tell me what I need to know. Adultery isn’t a crime. I really don’t understand why you’d want to conceal the truth, now there’s no longer any risk of your husband finding out. If you persist in lying, I’ll have to conclude that you have something else to hide.’

Amy closed her eyes while tears gathered and spilled down her cheeks. Geraldine waited.

At last Amy gave a deep shuddering sigh and opened her eyes.

‘Yes.’

Her voice was hardly above a whisper.

‘I was seeing someone. But it’s over. I haven’t seen him for – six months.’

Hesitation gave her away, indicating the affair was still going on.

‘Who is he?’

Amy shook her head.

‘It’s over,’ she insisted. ‘I don’t think it’s relevant who he is.’

‘I’ll decide what may or may not be relevant, Mrs Henshaw. Why did you lie about it?’

Amy began to cry.

‘It’s over,’ she insisted. ‘It’s over.’

Geraldine leaned forward.

‘We know that’s not true,’ she fibbed.

She couldn’t be sure the affair hadn’t finished – but when Amy’s eyes widened, Geraldine knew her accusation was accurate. Abruptly, Amy dropped her head in her hands and broke down in tears. After that, it didn’t take Geraldine long to learn the identity of Amy’s lover.

‘He’s got nothing to do with all this,’ Amy insisted tearfully. ‘Please – please –’

She broke off, weeping noisily.

Now that she had discovered what she needed to know, Geraldine stood up. She felt sorry for the woman’s distress, but her sympathy was tempered by the suspicion that Amy might be responsible for the cold blooded murder of her husband. It was a horrible thought, but there was no time to dwell on it. She informed Amy that someone would be round shortly to take a DNA sample in order to eliminate her from the enquiry, and left.

It was hard to focus on anything else while they waited for the results of the DNA test, especially with Sam so hopeful that Amy was at least implicated in the murder.

‘I’m guessing it was the two of them in it together, her and the boyfriend,’ she told Geraldine. ‘I can’t wait for the results of the DNA test. Amy’s already tried to pull the wool over our eyes about her affair. Why would she lie about it now her husband’s dead, unless she’s got something else to hide? If she’s prepared to lie about that, for sure she’d lie about killing her husband.’

Thinking it all over when she got home, Geraldine thought she could understand why a forty-year-old woman might want to conceal her relationship with a twenty-three-year-old man, even if her husband hadn’t just been brutally murdered in what appeared to be a very personal attack. There were all sorts of reasons why she might want to keep her two lives separate. For a start, the young man might not know how old his mistress was. Lost in speculation, Geraldine was startled by her phone and nearly dropped it as she lunged for it on the side table. She was neither surprised nor particularly pleased to hear her sister’s voice.

‘Geraldine, how are you?’ Celia asked earnestly, as though Geraldine was suffering from some sort of terminal cancer. ‘We haven’t heard from you for ages.’

Geraldine assured her she was fine and asked after Celia’s husband and daughter. That was a mistake. Celia could talk about her daughter for hours. She listened politely for as long as she could contain her impatience before she interrupted, insisting she had to go. Promising to call back when she had more time, she rang off.

G
uy was traced to a company that installed double glazing and bespoke conservatories. The next morning, Geraldine and Sam went to question Amy’s young lover.

‘Guy Barrett?’ the woman on reception repeated. She checked a ledger and nodded uncertainly.

‘Yes, he’s out on a job right now, but I’m not sure I can give you the customer’s address – I mean, I don’t think Mr Reynolds would like it if you interrupted the work, but I should have Guy’s address here somewhere. I’ll have to fish around for it. The system’s down, I’m afraid.’

With a sigh she began flicking through a file.

At five o’clock they arrived outside Guy’s flat just off the main Holloway Road. He didn’t answer the door, so they returned to the car to wait for him to come home. The mild September was changing with a hint of cold weather to come and a light steady drizzle began to fall as Geraldine settled further down in her seat. Just before half past six a young man entered the building. They waited a few moments before hurrying across the glistening road.

Tall and sturdily built, in his early twenties, Guy had a broad high forehead, dark curly hair and boyish features. He folded his bulging arms and leaned against the door frame, staring from Geraldine to Sam and back again, chewing gum and glaring like a sullen adolescent. When Geraldine introduced herself he straightened up, arms dangling, eyes downcast.

‘May we come in, Mr Barrett?’

He gave an awkward shrug without meeting her eyes.

‘Or we can talk at the police station.’

With a grunt the young man led them through an untidy kitchenette. Several empty beer bottles stood on a narrow work surface, a crusty saucepan rested on the hob beside a greasy frying pan, and a pile of plates was stacked, unwashed, beside a sink full of cutlery. One soiled tea towel was scrunched up beside the sink, another lay discarded on the floor. They passed into a cramped living room furnished with a dark red carpet, chairs too large for the space, and curtains an inch too short for the window. An unsightly crack stretched diagonally across one wall from floor to ceiling.

Guy remained standing, stammering awkwardly as he answered Geraldine’s questions. To begin with, he denied knowing the widow, but his lies were clumsy and he soon abandoned the pretence.

‘Oh Mrs Henshaw,’ he mumbled, frowning as though he had just recognised the name, and blushing. ‘Yes, I know her. That is, we’ve met. I was on a job at her house in Hampstead last year. That’s where I met Mrs Henshaw. And Mr Henshaw. I met them both.’

He glanced furtively at Geraldine under long thick lashes, before his eyes flicked away again.

‘Was that when your affair began? Last year?’

‘Affair?’

He turned his head and spat his gum into an open bin where it stuck, glistening, on top of an empty cigarette packet.

‘What affair’s that then?’

Geraldine almost felt sorry for the gauche young man. He didn’t strike her as particularly intelligent.

‘We know about your relationship with Mrs Henshaw so it’s pointless lying about it,’ Sam said firmly. ‘You’re not protecting her. It was Mrs Henshaw who gave us your name and told us about the affair.’

Barrett drew his broad shoulders back and raised his head, his face creased in a belligerent frown. He stared at Sam. He wasn’t much younger than her but he sounded like a stroppy teenager talking to his mother.

‘So? What of it? It’s not a crime to be seeing a woman, is it? And I don’t see that it’s any of your business either.’

‘No. But it is a crime to kill someone.’

‘Kill someone? What are you talking about? I thought you were talking about me and Amy. Who said anything about killing anyone?’

He shifted his weight awkwardly from one leg to the other and leaned back against the door frame again in a crude attempt to appear nonchalant. Geraldine studied his face closely as she told him that Mr Henshaw had been murdered. He scowled but didn’t say anything straight away. At last he raised his eyebrows in a studied expression of astonishment. Amy had presumably already told him about her husband’s death but Geraldine wondered if he had known before that. If he had been the first person to know.

‘Poor Amy. This is terrible.’

He gave an exaggerated sigh.

He was such a poor liar that Geraldine challenged the young man outright about his relationship with Patrick Henshaw and he glared at her suspiciously.

‘What relationship? What are you talking about? I only met him once, when we were doing his conservatory.’

‘When did you last see Patrick Henshaw?’

‘I told you, last year, when we had a job on there.’

Geraldine nodded.

‘Fine. Now we’d like you to come along to the police station to make a statement –’

‘What for? What sort of statement?’

He narrowed his eyes and took a step backwards.

‘You think I did it, don’t you? I’m sleeping with his wife so it had to be me that killed him. Is that it? That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard so you can get lost with your stupid stereotypes. You haven’t got a shred of evidence.’

He took a step backwards.

‘Are you refusing to come to the station?’

‘What if I am?’

‘I suggest you come voluntarily, so we can eliminate you from our enquiries.’

‘Do I have any choice?’

‘Not if you’re going to be sensible. Now come along.’

Somehow Geraldine found herself treating Guy as though he was a child. Despite his defiance, he seemed very biddable. Now that Geraldine had met him, she had to admit that Sam’s theory seemed quite plausible. Amy might well have seduced her young lover into disposing of her husband.

Back at the station Sam was exuberant.

‘He was screwing Henshaw’s wife, for goodness sake. And she’s going to inherit a packet, I expect. That house alone must be worth millions.’