Wings over the Watcher (23 page)

“He was in Leek that morning?”

“Yes.” She and Mike exchanged glances. This was like a horse race. And right now Pete Angiotti was way out in the lead. He had motive, opportunity and the right twisted character too.

Joanna leaned across the table. “Can I point out, doctor,” she said. “We have a murder investigation on our hands and you have come in of your own free will and told us a completely unbelievable story.”

“It’s true.”

“What strikes me is why have you come in to make confession today?”

Corinne touched her face. “Because my husband found
the letters,” she said. “And even
he
did not give me the benefit of the doubt. I knew I had to tell my story first – before you found out from another source. The whole thing was bound to come out.” She bent down, reached something from her bag and put sheets of blue notepaper on the desk. Joanna leaned back in her chair, eyed the sheets of paper, glanced at Korpanski triumphantly and resisted the temptation to punch a hole in the air.

“We’d like to keep these,” she said.

Corinne Angiotti simply nodded.

“Where are you going now? You can’t go home.”

Corinne shrugged. “I don’t know. I must speak to people at work and take some time off. I’d like to go away from Leek for now.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be possible for a while.”

“Well then?”

“We do have accommodation. A safe house.”

Corinne stood up. “I should go home,” she said.

“I take it it was your husband?”

Corinne nodded. Then she touched her face. “This is what husbands do to women they believe have betrayed them.” She swallowed. “I don’t think Pete will try anything again. He’s probably gone.”

“We can arrest him. But that isn’t the problem,” Joanna said.

Corinne’s face moved. Had it not been so swollen it is possible she would have looked questioning.

“Beatrice’s killer is still out there,” Joanna said.

Corinne managed the faintest of smiles. “Well – at least you don’t think it was me.”

“We know it wasn’t you,” Joanna said. “The hand that strangled her was a man’s.”

Corinne flinched. “So it isn’t a matter of your believing me or not,” she said. “It’s down to the facts.”

“I’m a policewoman,” Joanna said. “We’re not known for our blind trust in the human race.”

Corinne bowed her head.

“So you really do intend to go home?”

“Where else?” Corinne said steadily.

“We’d be only too happy for you to go home,” Joanna said, “on one condition, that you have a WPC with you 24 hours a day. We can’t risk this happening to you again. And the killer may have some animosity against you or even believe that you saw him on that morning.”

“If Pete sees a policewoman in our house he’ll think she’s there to arrest him.”

“I don’t care what your husband thinks,” Joanna said. “We can’t risk anything further happening to you. Understand?”

Corinne nodded.

“And you accept the terms – just until we’ve made an arrest?”

Again Corinne Angiotti nodded.

“Why did you keep the letters?” Joanna asked curiously. “They were so incriminating. Why didn’t you destroy them?”

“Because.” Corinne Angiotti looked helpless. “Because they were such beautiful letters. Because they were such lovely words, because she had a vision of me that was intensely flattering. Because no one had ever said such beautiful things to me before and probably never will again.”

“When did your husband find them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could it have been before June the 23rd?”

Corinne licked her cracked lips. “It’s possible. I think it might have been.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know. I just left.”

“Does he have a mobile phone?”

Corinne nodded.

Joanna pushed a pad and biro across the table at her and Corinne wrote the number down, copying from her own mobile phone menu.

She pushed the pad back at Joanna.

“Thank you.”

The action must have released some tension in the doctor. She gave Korpanski a flirtatious look as she spoke to Joanna. “I don’t suppose the first watch could be your detective sergeant, could it? I think I’d feel safe with him.”

Korpanski shifted his weight onto the other foot.

“OK by me,” Joanna said, laughing at him. “But if I were you,” she added soberly, “I think I’d make very sure your husband is out of the way. Detective Sergeant Korpanski is a chivalrous soul. I can’t imagine him being very merciful to the person who messed up your face.”

Korpanski’s stared back woodenly at the two women. Only the hint of a smile warmed his dark eyes to indicate that he had heard her. “I’ll follow you in my car, doctor,” he said.

So Joanna was left alone again. Immediately she returned to her office she dialled Pete Angiotti’s mobile number and wasn’t a bit surprised to find it switched off.

She left her message,
“Mr Angiotti, this is Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy here of the Leek police. We would like to talk to you about two matters. These are quite important. I suggest you return my call on Leek 01538…and ask to speak to me as soon as possible. It is now 3 p.m. on Tuesday July 14th.”
She ended the message with an ultimatum.
“If I have heard nothing by tomorrow morning I shall put out a stop and search.”

So – that was that. She rang Korpanski’s phone. “Where are you?”

“Just turning into the drive.”

“Any sign of him?”

“Not so far.”

“We need his car details,” she said. “I want him in here for questioning.”

“OK, Jo. Umm – how long do you want me to stay here for?”

“Enough time to make her comfortable. A couple of hours. Until a replacement arrives. I shall go and talk to Arthur, I think.”

“See you later then.”

It was five o’clock, an awkward time. Would she catch Pennington still at the office or would he already have set out for home? Leek would be gridlocked at this time of evening and she didn’t particularly want to sit in traffic for the next half hour. Neither could she justify putting the siren on which would have reduced her journey time to less than ten minutes to the Pennington home. Equally it was out of the question to use her bike. Even she had to acknowledge that arriving on a bike like Inspector Plod hardly gave out the message of the police force for the new 
millennium!

She picked up the phone and got straight through to the increasingly inquisitive secretary.

“Is Mr Pennington still there?”

“Yes. Have you got the person?”

“We’re getting there slowly. May I talk to him?”

“I’ll put you through right away.” Said breathily.

“What is it, Inspector?” Spoken wearily. It was obvious that grieving husband or not Pennington was getting tired of this case and of her constant attention. How quickly we adjust to new situations. A couple of weeks ago he had been distraught.

“I need to talk to you again, Mr Pennington,” she said.

“What about? Can’t it be done over the phone?”

No – because I would not be able to read your face – and all that it can tell me.

“Is there any chance that you could call in on the way home from work?”

“I – suppose so.”

“Good.” The exchange was finished.

But Pennington did not put the phone down. He cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose you could give me a clue what this is about? Are you likely to be making an arrest before long?”

“Better we talk face to face.”

Joanna wanted to rattle him, enough to make him nervous and talkative. Nervous people make mistakes. They babble out secrets.

And that was just what she wanted.

She sat back and waited.

She leaned back in her chair, rolling a biro between her two hands and thought. Two men were under suspicion. Pennington and Pete Angiotti. Motives? As Corinne had observed, they were both wronged husbands.

Pennington was easy to understand. He was an unimaginative man who would be easily shocked by his wife’s profession of love for another woman. But would it drive him
to murder?

Who knows what will drive a man to murder?

But Arthur Pennington couldn’t have done it.

Angiotti, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish. Instinctively she mistrusted him. There was something inherently weak about him.
And
he was a bully.

On instinct she searched his name on the PNC. Nothing. So why had they left London? Why had they come here? If he already knew about the letters his wife had been receiving why erupt now? Why had he hit her? Lastly was he capable of murder?

She continued rolling the biro between her hands and answered her own question. Yes. She thought so. Yes.

She heard the commotion outside and had a feeling she knew it who it would be.

Her phone rang in the same moment, as there was a knock on the door.

Hesketh-Brown peered round, excitement flushing his face. “We’ve got Doctor Angiotti’s husband here,” he said. “And he’s kicking up a right old fuss.”

That was when she missed Korpanski. Stolidly taking up position at the door, standing with his arms akimbo, feet planted wide apart, minding the proceedings. But this would not do. He could not always be there. “Are you free?” she asked the constable.

“Yep.”

“Well then, you and I are going to interview him.”

Hesketh-Brown grinned. “Great.”

She smiled to herself and watched Hesketh-Brown out of the corner of her eye, reflecting how long ago it was that she had expressed such enthusiasm for a mere interview. Maybe the young PC fancied his chances as a detective?

In a few years.

The desk sergeant had already put Pete Angiotti in Interview Room 2 and as she peered through the spy window she could see him pacing around, obviously agitated. He must have sensed her presence because he whipped
around and glared at her. She felt her pulse quicken as she pushed the door open. By any yardstick this promised to be a significant exchange.

She sat herself down opposite Angiotti and took a good long look at his face. He looked pale and wild, his eyes staring back at her with real fear. He was a typical bully. Cruel to those he felt he had the advantage of and cowering in the presence of one he feared.

But it did not suit her questioning to have him fearful. She wanted him relaxed so she began by smiling and thanking him for responding so swiftly to her appeal.

“Good afternoon, Mr Angiotti,” she said politely. “I think you know me already. Detective Inspector Piercy.”

He nodded. “I know who you are all right.”

“And this is PC Hesketh-Brown.”

Angiotti nodded at the young PC briefly and then turned his attention back to Joanna.

“Do you want a solicitor present?”

He shook his head.

Joanna guessed he was somewhere in his early forties. It is always difficult to decide someone’s age when they are under duress. He looked tired and haggard, his forehead resting on his hand as he spoke. But there was something belligerent too.

“Am I under arrest?”

“No. Not at the moment. We are simply interviewing you about two matters which are almost certainly connected, aren’t they, Mr Angiotti?”

Again he nodded that world-weary gesture before attempting to justify his action, directing his comment at Hesketh-Brown – not at Joanna. “I think most blokes would have flipped if they’d learned what I just did about my wife.”

Joanna played the innocent. “What did you learn?”

Angiotti flushed. “That she…”

She knew he was about to lie.

“That she was having an affair.”

Joanna raised her eyebrows. He was not convincing her.

“With a woman.”

She waited for him to flash his third trump card.

“One of her patients.”

Hesketh-Brown looked down at Angiotti’s right hand spread on the table. It was puffy and swollen. The knuckles were reddened and grazed. A spot of blood had congealed on the middle finger. It had been quite a blow.

“It was the woman who was murdered,” he finished then sneaked a direct look at both police officers.

“How long had the affair been going on?”

“Months – I think. They were planning to go away together.”

“When did you find out?”

For the first time Pete Angiotti looked distinctly uneasy.

Because he was about to lie.

“Today. I found the letters in my wife’s bag.” He gave a swift glance at Hesketh-Brown for sympathy. “They gave me quite a shock.”

“You didn’t know before that?”

“I was suspicious.”

“Why?”

“Because she didn’t…” His voice trailed away. No man likes to confess that his wife is reluctant to have sex with him. They all consider it a failing on their part. If they were a better lover their wife would be panting for them.

Joanna watched Angiotti closely.

He met her eyes, flushed and looked away.

“She wasn’t keen on sex,” he said reluctantly.

“Right. Let’s move to the assault earlier on today.”

Angiotti looked ashamed. “I just lost my rag,” he said.

“Well – in cases of alleged domestic violence,” Joanna said, “we almost always press charges. And we will in this case – whatever your wife says. Now where are you going to be?”

Angiotti looked surprised. “Home,” he said.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Joanna said. “My
detective sergeant is with your wife at the moment, in your home. I suggest you go elsewhere.”

She paused, trying to mentally suppress any response from Hesketh-Brown. He didn’t know her methods as well as Korpanski. “Can I just clarify a few points?”

“Yes.”

“You allege that your wife and Beatrice Pennington were having an affair?”

“Ye-es.”

“Are you suggesting that your wife killed her?”

She felt Hesketh-Brown’s surprised gaze. He knew as well as she did that Beatrice Pennington had been killed by a man.

But Angiotti didn’t. “I didn’t say that.”

“I know you didn’t
say
it. What I’m asking is did you
think
it?”

Angiotti looked even more uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Possibly.”

“But why? If they were planning to go away together I can’t understand what would be her motive.”

Angiotti gaped. He hadn’t worked this one out. “Perhaps they’d fallen out,” he said. “Maybe Mrs Pennington was threatening to expose my wife. The General Medical Council take a very dim view of professional misconduct with patients. If Mrs Pennington had claimed that my wife took advantage of her position my wife would have been struck off.” A nasty smirk crossed his face. “Just think of the publicity. The first ever woman doctor to be struck off for having an affair with another woman. It would really hit the headlines, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” Joanna agreed. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Sure – anything.”

This was how she liked her suspects. Over confident. Cocky. Off their guard.

“Why did you leave London?”

For a moment the wariness was back. Angiotti looked at
her for a minute. She knew he was wondering which lie to feed her.

“We’d had enough of living in a big city,” he said.

This was not the truth.

“Corinne wanted to live up here. We’d been to Buxton for a holiday – years ago.”

Neither was this.

“I’d had a few problems in the school where I taught.”

“What sort of problems?”

“Allegations. No truth in them at all.”

She simply raised her eyebrows and waited for the whole truth.

“A thirteen-year-old. She said I’d assaulted her. Got hold of her too roughly. She claimed I’d lost my temper.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

“So what happened in the end?”

“Nothing. The girl dropped charges and I left the area. The whole thing fizzled away. But if I’d stayed I would never have been free of it so we left. Scandal sticks, Inspector. Can I go now?”

“Just one more thing. I take it you admit you did hit your wife?”

Angiotti nodded.

“And lastly,” She wanted to rattle him further. She wanted him to know that he was in the picture for being a murder suspect. “Did you kill Beatrice Pennington?”

“No. No.”

“OK then.” She stood up. “We will want to speak to you again and probably caution you but for now you may go.”

Angiotti nodded, bowed his head and eyed the door.

“Keep your mobile on,” Joanna said.

She watched him file along the corridor, looking somehow smaller than when he had come in. As he passed her he met her eyes. She knew what he was dumbly asking her.
Am
I a suspect?

She gave an imperceptible nod.

So – she was again alone in her office and found it strange. She and Korpanski always worked together. They were almost like Siamese twins. Joined at the hip. Except for annual leave it was rare for her to be alone in the office they shared, an overcrowded small room with a view over a brick wall, two desks, two computers, a notice board.

On impulse she rang the desk sergeant. “Put me in touch with Bridget Anderton,” she said. But WPC Anderton had already left to play nursemaid to Corinne Angiotti.