White Lies (4 page)

“What about a laptop?”

“I don’t think he had one.”

“A desktop then. He must have had some sort of computer. Everyone does.”

“I don’t.”

Meinwen smiled over the rim of her cup. “You have a valid excuse not to.”

“I suppose.” Jimmy took a notebook from his pocket. “I did find this. It’s a record of his bank account, maybe. It’s a bit odd.” He handed it over.

She glanced through it. “Not a bank, I don’t think. The deposits are too irregular. A hundred pounds here and two there. There are entries for several hundred every week, followed by a drop to nothing. Every time he accumulates a thousand he takes it all out and starts all over again. How curious. There’s no money in the house, I suppose?” She flicked through the pages. “This has been going on for years.”

“He never mentioned anything about making extra money on the side. I haven’t found any money in the house. Not in those sort of amounts, anyway. I haven’t looked in the loft, mind, though I’m sure the police have checked every inch up there.”

“Is that where he...”

“Aye. From a roofing beam apparently.”

“I can understand your reticence then.” Meinwen put her cup back on the saucer. The scrape of china punctuated an awkward silence.

Jimmy reached across for the book again. “What do you reckon then? Betting? Money laundering?” He sighed. “John wasn’t the type to take risks with the law.”

“Not with such exact amounts. It was more like he was saving for something or salting it away. He was on the straight and narrow, I take it?”

“As far as I know, aye. Happy as Larry in his letters. All loved up, like I said.”

“But you’ve no idea with whom?”

“No. If I was in love I’d be shouting it from the rooftops. John? He was a bit more circumspect. Stayed on at school to do his A levels and went to university. Whoever his girlfriend was he was keeping quiet about her.”

“Perhaps she was married?”

“Aye. Maybe so. That would be a motive for murder, wouldn’t it? If the husband found out. It’s not like John was a gigolo.” He grinned and shook his head. “I did find some nice suits in the house, mind. Not your average Marks and Sparks affairs.”

“It certainly sounds like your brother wasn’t a man likely to commit suicide.” Meinwen reached across for his cup and saucer, carrying both across to the sink. She returned for the teapot and stood, staring down at the notebook. “Can I hang on to this for a while?”

“Sure.” Jimmy pushed back his chair and stood. “You’ll take the case then?”

Meinwen cupped her chin in her hand, tapping her lips with the index finger. “Let me have a nose about and see what I turn up. There’s certainly something unusual going on but whether there’s enough to persuade the police to reopen the case is another matter.”

Chapter 4

Meinwen stood at the doorway while Jimmy laced on his boots under the shelter of the portico. “I shall need to come round and look at the house for myself. What time would suit you best?”

Jimmy looked up, a lace between each fist. “Come round now if you like. I’ve nothing planned but a visit to the dole office.”

“I can’t right now. I’ve got to get my head down for a couple of hours. I’ve been up all night and can hardly think for foggy headedness.”

“Fair enough. This afternoon then? It’ll give me chance to have a bit of a tidy up.”

“Oh no. Don’t do that. I’ll have no idea what might be missing if you tidy everything away.” Meinwen drew her fingers across her eyes, rubbing the grit from the corners as she yawned. “Have a root about and see if you can find a clue to that money book. Then get in touch with your brother’s solicitor about his death. Do you know who he used?”

“No clue.”

“All right. There aren’t many in town so it won’t be too hard to track down. Ask the police for a release date for the body and a list of everything they removed from the house. I’d look into your brother’s insurance policies, too and make the funeral arrangements. That’s a good use of your time. Make it sooner rather than later and advertise it in the
Laverstone Times.
Let’s see who turns up to his funeral, shall we? It’ll give us a chance to look at the rats in their finery.”

“Aye I suppose it will at that. Do you think his lady friend will come?”

“I don’t see why not. I’d go to the funeral of a loved one who’d supposedly killed themselves.”

“You’re right. Is Oxley’s still in business?”

“I believe so. Chapelgate? Next to the butcher’s?”

“Aye. That’s the one. I’ll have a trot down there. See what the rates are.”

“As you wish. I’ll see you this afternoon. Do you have a mobile I can reach you on?”

“Surely.” Jimmy pulled out an old mobile. “Haven’t used this for a while. We’re not allowed them inside. It doesn’t work at the moment, mind. I’ve no charger for it.”

“I might have one.” Meinwen held out her hand and Jimmy gave her the phone. She went back into the house, leaving him to finish tying his laces. There was a box full of wires and rubbish in the cupboard under the stairs. She hauled it out past the vacuum cleaner and dropped it on the sideboard, shifting a couple of her landlady’s Royal Doulton figurines aside to make room. She rooted through old USB and modem cables, several plugs cut off the ends of defunct appliances, her first mobile phone from the nineties, which was roughly the size and weight of a house brick and a number of leads from assorted defunct mobiles. She pulled one out and checked the end fitted in the handset and plugged it in. It lit up straight away, allowing her to access the memory for its own number, which she wrote twice on two pieces of card.

“Here.” She handed the phone, the charger and one of the pieces of card to Jimmy, who was smoking a cigarette under the shelter of the portico. “I’ve written the number down for you as well, so you can give it the undertaker and the police.”

“Thanks.” John hefted the charger. “How much do I owe you?”

Meinwen shook her head. “Nothing. It was for a phone I don’t even have any more. Just useless clutter to me. You could get a new one for a few quid.” She gave him a smile. “I’m just glad it’s going to a good home. Waste not, want not.”

Jimmy laughed, his brown eyes reflecting the light and matching the exact shade on the tea cups she’d just stacked next to the sink. “Our mam used to say that.”

“Then she was a wise woman.” Meinwen stepped forward and held out her hand. “I shall see you this afternoon then, Mr. Fenstone.”

“Call me Jimmy.” He shook her hand. “All my friends do.”

“Then you can call me Meinwen.” His hands were rough, the inner edges of the fingers calloused and the mounts of Jupiter and Saturn-like miniature gobstoppers of hardened skin. Whatever they’d had him doing in prison had not been kind to him. “Is there anything you need before you go? Are you all right for money?”

“For a while yet, thanks. There was a few quid in the house and I’ve a post office account the police never got wind of.” He winked. “I just have to convince them I am who I am and I’ll have enough to tide me over until the dole comes through.”

“Would you like me to look out for work? You never know what you can come across.”

“That’d be kind of you, love, but I doubt there are many willing to give a job to an ex-con.”

“Nevertheless, I shall put the feelers out. I have a lot of contacts in town. I’m sure someone knows someone who wants someone.”

Jimmy looked out into the drizzle. “Easy for you to say.”

“Would you like an umbrella to borrow? You could give it back later, when I visit.”

He shook his head. “Thanks all the same, but umbrellas are for toffs and sissies. There’s never been a bit of rain that’s hurt me.”

“An admirable proclamation, albeit a damp one.” Meinwen took a step backward into the house. “Well then. I must get on.”

“Aye, as should I.” Jimmy turned his collar up and strode off toward the gate. He gave a final wave as he stepped through and then was gone. Meinwen closed the door thoughtfully. It would be interesting to investigate something again. She’d have to pull her collection of Agatha Christies out from under the bed to see if Monsieur Poirot could give her any tips.

She crossed to the house phone and called the police station. “May I speak to Detective-sergeant Peters, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling and what it’s in connection with?”

“This is Meinwen Jones. It’s about the suicide of John Fenstone.”

“That’s not a serious crime, madam. Can I put you through to the civil liaison officer?”

“I’d rather talk to Peters, if you don’t mind.” Meinwen took a deep breath and smiled. She could tell when someone was smiling on the other end of a telephone line. “I helped his wife give birth to their first child, you know.”

“Ah, I see. Just wait a moment then, while I see if he’s in.”

“Certainly.” Meinwen dropped the smile. She’d told a lie there. Only a little white one but still. The help she’d given Julie Peters had been more of the phone- for-an-ambulance variety rather than actually assist in the birth. She hadn’t even known it was the sergeant’s wife at that point either, just a poor woman’s water breaking in the pasta aisle at Sainsbury’s.

The line clicked and the woman returned.
“Miss Jones?”

“Yes? Still here.”

“DS Peters isn’t in the office at present. May I take a message for him?”

“No, it’s fine, thanks. I’ll try his mobile.”

“I’m afraid we can’t give out an officer’s mobile number.”

“It’s all right. I have it.” Meinwen put the phone down, mentally kicking herself for not using his mobile number in the first place. She fetched her phone from the kitchen and found his name.

“DS Peters.”

“Sergeant? It’s Meinwen Jones, here.”

“Ah. I was expecting a call from you. I sent a lad round. James Fenstone?”

“About the death of his brother, yes. I wanted to ask you why it was ruled suicide.”

“I didn’t deal with the case myself, but I had a glance through the file this morning after he came in. As far as I’m aware it was an open-and-shut case. There was no sign of a break-in, nothing was missing and he’d taken a lot of trouble to give himself enough of a drop for a broken neck. No foul play assumed. The autopsy listed it as death by asphyxiation.”

“Not from a broken neck?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean the neck wasn’t broken as part of the death.”

“That’s unusual, surely? If he hung himself, his cause of death would be the broken neck? If the break occurred after death, you’ve got murder on your hands.”

“Look, don’t get excited, Meinwen. It wasn’t a murder. You’ve been watching too much television.”

“I don’t have a television. You should know that.”

“Reading too many books then. Laverstone has more than its fair share of murders, I’ll admit, but John Fenstone isn’t one of them.”

“All right.” Meinwen dropped her voice low. “What if I asked you very nicely, though? Could you find out if the neck was broken at the time of death or afterward?”

“Oh, don’t...” Peters laughed. “You’ll have me thrown off the force. I can’t ask for a second autopsy without a damned good reason. White would have my guts for garters for squandering police resources.”

Meinwen sighed. “Very well. Why did you send him to me if you’re so convinced his brother’s death was suicide?”

She heard the hiss as Peters drew his breath through his teeth. “There were a few things odd about the report.”

“Such as?”

“Well, his shoes for one. He was only wearing one shoe. Now before you interrupt, it’s common in a slow hanging, one where the neck doesn’t break and the victim dances on the end of the rope, for him to kick his shoes off. It’s even possible for a shoe to fall off at the end of a long drop but this bloke’s shoe wasn’t under the body. It was in the hall below. It’s possible he kicked it off down the stairs but not very likely.”

“I see.” Meinwen frowned. She had to stop herself from smiling. Jimmy was right. His brother was murdered, she was sure of it. “What else? You said there were a few things.”

“Yeah. No recent pictures in the house, either. There were a couple of obvious gaps, according to the SOCO report. Again, could be an innocent explanation.”