The Marriage Hearse (18 page)

‘I suppose you’ve come about Kirsten. Look, I’ve given a statement already and there’s nothing more I can tell you. We were
hardly close.’

‘You didn’t like her.’

The woman shrugged her tanned shoulders and the thin strap of her sun top slipped down. ‘I didn’t have any feelings for her
one way or the other.’

‘So you didn’t think she was a calculating little bitch?’ said Wesley innocently.

Petula bristled with self-righteous indignation. ‘I don’t know where you got that from.’

‘So you deny saying that to your husband?’

She opened and closed her mouth a few times before answering. ‘I don’t know how you …’

‘You were overheard.’

Petula looked uncomfortable. ‘I was cross that Richard was spending so much time with his ex. I’m his wife, after all. It
was just something I said on the spur of the moment.’

‘So you liked Kirsten?’

She hesitated, considering whether to lie or tell the truth. Eventually she decided on the latter. ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

Heffernan leaned forward. ‘Tell me about her. All this stuff about speaking ill of the dead can really bugger up a murder
investigation. It helps us if we hear about the victim, warts and all. What was Kirsten really like?’

Petula looked relieved … and glad to be able to dish the dirt with a clear conscience. ‘Like I said, she was a calculating
little bitch. She used to phone Richard … put on her daddy’s girl act to get him
together with her mother and away from me. She used to look at me like I was this scarlet woman. But I knew she was no saint.’

‘What do you mean?’ Wesley asked.

‘She used to lead men on. Like that one who she claimed was stalking her. She used to invite him round … keep him on the boil.
And there were others. Then she met that Peter Creston and reckoned he was a good catch. His family had money and so did he.
He had a good job. Nice car. Let’s say I always felt it was a marriage of convenience on her part.’

‘What about Peter? How did he feel?’

‘He was smitten. But he’d have found out what she was like once they were married.’ She folded her arms and sat there, looking
pleased with herself. ‘Some boyfriend will have strangled her. She’ll have pushed someone too far.’

Wesley smiled. ‘Just for the record, where were you between eleven and twelve thirty on the day of Kirsten’s death?’

Petula rolled her eyes. I’ve already given a statement. I was here. A taxi came at twelve thirty to take me to the church.
I hardly knew anyone there so I didn’t want to arrive too early.’

‘You can walk to Honey Cottage from here, can’t you?’

‘Only across the hall grounds. And I was wearing bloody stilettos,’ she said as though this provided her with the perfect
alibi.

They thanked Petula and left her there alone, waiting for her husband who was probably still comforting his ex-wife.

On their way out they saw a running figure bobbing down the road. Sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead as his feet
pounded on the hard pavement as he sped off towards the grounds of Tradington Hall.

Wesley nudged his companion’s arm. ‘You don’t think that could be the runner Quigley told us about, do you?’

‘Go on then, you get after him if you’re feeling up to it.’

Wesley hesitated for a second then he smiled. ‘Probably isn’t
him. Loads of people go running, don’t they?’

‘Can’t understand the appeal of exercise myself,’ Heffernan said as the runner disappeared from sight.

* * *

Stuart Richter put his hand to his face. The cut to his temple hurt like hell. They’d called it resisting arrest. But to Stuart
it felt more like police brutality.

He sat on the blue plastic mattress in the cell below the police station. The custody sergeant – the guardian of the Underworld
in this, Tradmouth’s answer to Hades – had asked him if he wanted a cup of tea. But even a sip of tea in this place would
choke him. He had to get out.

They had taken a swab from the inside of his mouth. DNA they said. But he’d not left anything behind at the cottage, he was
sure of that. There was no way they could accuse him.

He lay down on the blue mattress and curled his body up as though defending his more vulnerable parts from some anticipated
attack. He felt he was going mad, losing control. But then, as far as Kirsten was concerned, he’d lost control long ago. One
moment tears were rolling down his cheeks as he wept for Kirsten … for his beautiful girl. The next he simply didn’t care
what happened. She was gone and that was it. Life was over.

While there had been life – even when she’d been preparing to marry Peter Creston – there had been some sort of hope. But
now it was too late. One moment had put paid to all his dearest dreams. She was dead. He’d knelt by her bed stroking her hair,
running the tendrils of blond silk through his fingers as he willed her to breathe. He had kissed her face and he had tried
to close the bulging eyes that stared at him with blank accusation.

He wondered if the police had talked to John Quigley and his mother yet. It had been a mistake to involve them. He should
have kept an eye on her himself. If he had, then maybe everything would have been all right.

The hollow clatter of the cell door being unlocked echoed in the bare room like a gunshot. Stuart hauled himself upright and
pressed his back into the wall, as though he hoped it would swallow him up. The door swung open and the custody sergeant stood
there, a large bearded figure outlined against a halo of white fluorescent light, like the picture of St Peter in Tradmouth
Church … the keeper of the keys.

‘Chief Inspector Heffernan wants a word with you,’ the sergeant
said, casual, almost friendly, as though he were issuing an invitation to join him in a drink.

Stuart allowed himself to be led out into the light, blinking. He shuffled down a labyrinth of corridors, escorted by a uniformed
constable who was about his own age. But the two young men had nothing to say to each other. They inhabited different worlds
now. And Stuart Richter’s world was a dark, uninviting one. One he would never have wished on another human being.

Stuart could smell fresh paint. The interview room had just been decorated. As he sat down his chair scraped loudly on the
grey lino floor, a deafening noise in the expectant silence. He could see the tape machine at the end of the table. Every
word he said would be recorded. He had to be careful. There was no way he could tell the police the truth.

Stuart was kept waiting ten minutes before Chief Inspector Heffernan finally arrived. Mind games, he thought to himself. But
they wouldn’t work.

The chief inspector was an unimpressive man. Unkempt brown hair, chubby face, middle-aged spread and a shirt that had only
made a passing acquaintance with an iron. When he opened his mouth he spoke with a Liverpool accent. He hardly seemed a formidable
opponent. But even Stuart Richter knew that looks can be deceptive.

His sidekick, however, was a different matter. He was black, good looking with intelligent eyes and an educated accent, possibly
public school. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Peterson and proceeded to do most of the talking. He was sharp
and Stuart feared that no detail would go unquestioned and no nuance unremarked. If he wanted his freedom he had to take care.
But he wasn’t sure what he wanted any more. Perhaps prison wouldn’t matter after all, now she was gone for ever.

‘You were stalking her.’ It was the chief inspector who spoke, staring him in the eye, challenging.

‘I loved her. I was worried about her.’

‘Why?’ the younger man asked, his head tilted to one side in an attitude of polite enquiry.

‘That Peter Creston. He had some violent friends. You can tell a man by the company he keeps,’ he added smugly.

‘Peter Creston was violent?’

Stuart thought about the question for a moment. ‘He got his friends to beat me up. The rugby club lot. If he was violent to
a man he didn’t even know, I dread to think what he’d have done to Kirsten.’

‘Did you tell her about your concerns?’

‘Of course I did. Over and over again.’ Stuart was beginning to harbour the hope that perhaps the police – or at least this
black inspector – were willing to listen after all.

‘You hired a private detective to keep an eye on Kirsten. A John Quigley. He didn’t mention Kirsten being in any sort of danger.’

Stuart felt his face burning. ‘He couldn’t know what went on behind closed doors. That’s why I had to make her see … why I
had to stop the wedding.’

‘You were at the church? No one mentioned seeing you there.’

‘I couldn’t go there, could I? Too many people would recognise me and they’d be there … his friends from the rugby club. I
didn’t want another beating.’

‘When these friends of Peter Creston beat you up the first time, did you report it to the police?’

Stuart shook his head. ‘Nah. They were all from the rugby club. Friends in high places. Who’d believe me? Creston’s dad’s
a doctor. People like that close ranks. It’d be my word against theirs.’

‘You specifically told the Quigleys not to watch Honey Cottage on the day of the wedding. You said you’d see to things yourself.
Why was that?’

Stuart closed his eyes as though he wished the ground would swallow him up. ‘No comment,’ he whispered.

Heffernan leaned forward. ‘We’ve heard that Kirsten wasn’t exactly pure as the driven snow. Did you know she was having it
off with the builder who was working on the cottage?’

Stuart felt fury rising within him like a wave, overwhelming him, robbing him of control. Before he knew it, he was on his
feet, banging his fist on the table. ‘That’s a bloody lie.’

‘Got quite a temper, haven’t you, Stuart? Sit down.’

Stuart saw a smirk on the big man’s lips. They were lying to him to get him riled. They were one step ahead but he had to
outthink them. He had to keep calm.

‘Kirsten wouldn’t listen, would she?’ It was Peterson who spoke this time, quietly, reasonably. ‘You called on her when she
was getting ready for her wedding to warn her. You wanted to tell her what you knew about Peter Creston and his cronies. You
watched the cottage until you knew she was alone then you just walked in on her, didn’t you? The door was unlocked. Was she
expecting you? Or someone else perhaps? You tried to reason with her but she wouldn’t listen. Women can be so stubborn, can’t
they?’

Stuart felt himself nodding. Peterson was right. Kirsten had been stubborn. She hadn’t listened. Even when he’d showered her
with gifts he could barely afford, even when he’d kept ringing her, reasoning with her, telling her how much he loved her,
she hadn’t listened.

‘Where were you on the morning of Kirsten’s death, between eleven and twelve thirty?’ Peterson asked.

‘I was at the hotel. They were getting ready for the … for the reception.’

‘We’ve checked. You went missing for about a couple of hours around that time. The manager said it wasn’t the first time you’d
not bothered to turn up for your shift.’

‘I did turn up. Then I had a headache. I went to lie down in my room.’

‘Someone went to your room to check where you were. We have all the statements here.’ He pointed to a thick file.

‘I was there for a while, then I went for a walk. I needed some fresh air.’

‘Do you expect us to believe that after pursuing Kirsten so assiduously for all those months, you wouldn’t make a final attempt
to contact her on her wedding day. It was your last chance to make her change her mind. You’ve just told us you wanted to
stop the wedding.’

Stuart felt confused. ‘I meant before … not on the day. There’s always divorce … when she found out what he was like and came
to her senses.’ He looked at the two men and something told him they weren’t altogether convinced.

Peterson stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Richter. That’s all for now.’

Hope welled up in Stuart’s breast. They’d nothing to keep him. ‘Can I go?’

Peterson gave him a businesslike smile. ‘Sorry, but we’re waiting for the results of some tests. We’ll need to talk to you
again.’ He swept out of the office behind his boss and Stuart’s hopes plunged.

Perhaps he should have told them the truth. But the truth doesn’t always set you free.

Joyce Barnes sat in her office and looked at the telephone suspiciously. Why hadn’t Gerry rung. She had vital information.

She looked at the photofit picture again. The unidentified man had been found in a guesthouse bedroom on the seedier side
of town and his death was being treated as suspicious, which, in police-speak, meant he’d been murdered. The man had booked
in a few days before as Mr Jones – obviously an assumed name – and had kept himself to himself. Whoever had killed him had
locked the door behind them and gone off with the key – possibly in a half-hearted attempt to delay the discovery of the body
– and the only visitor he’d received had been a pretty foreign girl. As Joyce re-read the girl’s description, she was suddenly
convinced that she’d been right after all to call Gerry. And it would give her a chance to see him again before Saturday.

The moment she heard the knock on the office door, Joyce hid the newspaper beneath a large file with practiced ease and called
come in. The secretary, Lynne, stepped into the room. She looked worried.

‘The police want to see you, Joyce. A chief inspector.’ From the tone of her voice she might have been announcing that Satan
himself was at the door, demanding Joyce’s soul.

Joyce smoothed her hair. ‘Did he give his name?’

Lynne looked confused. ‘Halligan, Heffingham … something like that. Does it matter?’

Joyce felt herself blushing. ‘Has he got a Liverpool accent?’

‘That’s right. Do you know him?’ She looked at her boss suspiciously. If Joyce had had dealings with the police, perhaps she
had a secret life that Lynne knew nothing about.

‘Show him in, will you? But give me a minute.’

As Lynne left the room, Joyce rushed to the mirror on the wall, touched up her lipstick and ferreted in her handbag for her
perfume. When she was satisfied, she sat down at her desk and pretended to look at a file, frowning in earnest concentration.