An Accidental Shroud (16 page)

'A mistake? You guessed the wrong person?'

'No, no! It was just that Judy was very quiet, you know, and a bit shy, she didn't have any boyfriends. She had to be making it up, hadn't she, just so we wouldn't pity her?'

'That's possible. Sharon, how do you account for the way she died?'

'It was an accident, they said so at the inquest! She just crossed the road without looking!' Sharon was becoming very agitated. She was still very young under the thin veneer of sophistication.

'You didn't think it was an accident at the time, though, did you? You told Mrs Petheridge why you thought she'd done it.'

'I was over-reacting and imagining things!'

Jenny said, 'Where did you think she got the bracelet, then?'

'Maybe her parents bought it for her, in spite of what she said. Her father used to spoil her rotten, but he said no, they hadn't, and that they hadn't found it among her things after she –' She broke off. 'It's because Nigel Fontenoy's been murdered, isn't it? That's why you're asking all these questions – that's why –'

'Her father told you that?' Jenny interrupted. 'When?'

'Oh, recently. About a month ago, I suppose. It was the first time I'd seen him since Judy died.'

'How did you come to be discussing this? Had he specifically arranged to meet you and talk about it?'

Sharon stared at her. 'Judy's dad? Good heavens, no! He's
Tom Callaghan,
didn't you know? We just happened to bump into each other when I was trying to start my old car one night after work, only it wouldn't. I've got a new one now. He was coming out of the TV centre and had a look at it. He said I was wasting my time trying to start it and offered me a lift home. He's really great, isn't he?' she asked, dazzled by fame and a smooth tongue. 'He suggested stopping off for something to eat and asked me if I'd join him. We had a bottle of wine and, well ...'

'You began to talk about Judy?'

Colour rushed up under the pale, polished make-up. 'He was the one who first mentioned her, not me! I mean, I'd have been scared of upsetting him, but he said it helped to talk about her. He asked me if I really believed she'd commit suicide and I said no, not now, though I had at first. And I told him why.'

'What was his reaction?'

'He was very nice about it, but he agreed with me that I'd been reading too much into things. He said Nigel Fontenoy was a family friend and agreed there was no way Judy would've killed herself, and that she must have made up the story about the bracelet.'

'Where do you think she got it, then – and what's happened to it? If her parents don't have it, who does?' Sharon's big brown eyes were troubled. 'You have it, don't you?' Jenny asked, gently.

'She – she asked me to look after it for her when she wasn't wearing it because she didn't want her parents to see it.'

'May I see it?'

'I haven't got it now. Her father asked me for it ... I didn't want it, anyway, reminding me of Judy every time I looked at it.'

Carmody poked his head round Abigail's office door, waving papers, looking so like a bloodhound that had got the scent that she couldn't forbear to smile. 'From Forensics, and about time,' he announced. 'Knew you'd want to see it straight away.'

She swallowed the last of the warm croissant she'd picked up at Selina's Sarnies round the corner by way of breakfast, drained her coffee and put aside Jenny Platt's report, which opened up interesting speculations about Tom Callaghan's involvement in Fontenoy's murder. She'd done a good job there, and was now on her way to see the woman Callaghan alleged he'd spent the night with, for what it was worth. A good girl, Jenny, dependable, tough as old boots under that innocent face and mop of curls – and shrewd. As she'd pointed out, with the revelations about the bracelet, Callaghan had more than enough to convince him that Judy had in some way been secretly associating with Nigel. Add to that the fact that Nigel was old enough to be her father, and claimed to be one of Callaghan's best friends – well, any father would have felt like killing Fontenoy.

Abigail picked up the papers Carmody had left with her, pushing aside a couple of bulky files on her desk to make more room. Surrounded by computers as they were, it was a constant source of wonderment to her why the stacks of paper never seemed to lessen. After she'd read the report through and absorbed the information it contained, she scooped it up and took it in to Mayo.

'So it
was
blood in the truck, Abigail.'

'Well, yes,' she said doubtfully. No doubt about it, the stain

Carmody had seen was blood, human blood, but Group O – the group to which Nigel Fontenoy had belonged – along with Abigail Moon and half the CID and a fair percentage of the rest of the population. 'But it'll take weeks to complete a full DNA probe.' And yet, if the analysis turned out to be positive, it would show that this particular blood had only about a one in eight million chance of
not
being that of Nigel Fontenoy.

'Life's too short to let that hold us up,' Mayo decided. 'For the time being, we've enough supporting evidence to proceed on the reasonable assumption that it was Jake Wilding's truck which transported Fontenoy's body to Nailers' Yard. Hair and fibres from his clothing found in the truck, plus the gravel extracted from the grazes on his face – which I see Dexter says comprises brick dust and cement.'

'You'll also see they found minute traces of soil in Fontenoy's office. Red, sandy. The same soil as that on Wilding's building site. It looks as though Fontenoy
was
stabbed there in the office.'

Mayo went on to read the rest of the report. The square of carpet which had been removed hadn't yielded sufficient uncontaminated blood to be of use, but the SOCO team had uncovered a further identical type bloodstain on the A4 pad on his desk, one spot which hadn't been noticed by the murderer, because it had fallen directly upon the ink stain which had been soaking through the pad. The killer, carefully cleaning up the office, even to the extent of neatly recapping Fontenoy's gold fountain pen and cleaning the carpet with biological detergent, the sort guaranteed to remove oil, egg, blood, sweat (and even toil and tears, who could tell?) had missed that stain, masked as it was by the ink.

Mayo looked up, frowning. 'Don't you find that odd, Abigail? Somebody as meticulous as that neglecting to clean up the blood on the bottom of the pick-up? Unless he was disturbed, and couldn't get back to it.' If, for instance, the truck had been "borrowed" by someone.

'Or unless he was incredibly confident that the bloodstains would never be recognized as such – and certain that the truck would never be connected with the murder, anyway.'

An assumption the killer might have got away with, too, all things being equal ...

'There's something else you ought to know about friend Wilding. We've been checking his alibi, and guess what we found?'

Mayo wanted to talk to Jake Wilding himself, but it was early evening before they were able to go up to Ham Lane once more.

Abigail drove, to the accompaniment of a sad little piece by Ravel in a minor key, emanating from Mayo's radio, permanently tuned to Radio 3. Classic FM, interspersed with adverts, he scorned as upmarket wallpaper music. Serious music was an occupational hazard when driving with Mayo. He claimed it helped to oil the workings of his brain, which was why he preferred to close his eyes and let someone else take the wheel.

October was well advanced and although the clocks hadn't yet gone back it was rapidly growing dark. The long, dry summer and the big storm had completed an early leaf fall, and the trees were bare-branched against the darkening sky. Boys were knocking the few remaining conkers from the horse chestnuts outside the park gates. There was a strong nip in the air, a sparkle of frost on the tarmac, a foretaste of winter.

The two Wildings and Callaghan, Mayo was thinking behind closed lids. Matthew Wilding, who had the carrot of a promised inheritance from Fontenoy as motive, but who had allegedly been drunk and incapable that night. Young, immature, but murderously inclined? Debatable. And his father, against whom the evidence was steadily piling up, his motive so far unclear, unless it was to rid himself of the debt he owed to his cousin. It wasn't a motive Mayo was inclined to give credence to. And was Wilding the sort to be capable of this murder? Mayo could see Jake using his fists, or even the traditional blunt instrument, but a stiletto? Wasn't there something a bit too subtle about that for Jake? On the other hand, if it had simply been there, when a quarrel arose ...

His prospects, however you looked at it, were less than happy.

And now Callaghan, who had a significant grudge against Fontenoy but against whom there was as yet no evidence whatsoever to prove he'd actually gone so far as to murder him. But it didn't take much imagination to see him sliding a knife into soft flesh.

For the moment, however, the main focus must remain on Wilding, at present at home and in the bosom of his family. An inconvenient time to call, suppertime, but Mayo was making no excuses for a strategy designed to catch them all at their ease, and hopefully off guard.

A figure was straddling a heavy motorbike as they drove up to the house, bending over the side to adjust something. 'Thought it was cars, not motorbikes, Matthew Wilding was interested in,' he remarked, opening his eyes on the scene.

But it wasn't Matthew. The raven black hair was as long as a girl's, and as the person sat up and pulled on a crash helmet, they saw it was in fact a girl. And Abigail saw a face that kept her immobile, that impressed itself on her retina, an unforgettable face, olive-skinned, with a very straight nose, full lips and smouldering eyes, a face full of drama and self-will. Before the car had stopped, the rider had kicked the machine into life and roared down the drive.

'Maybe it's the daughter. Christine Wilding's.'

'Whoever she is, she can handle that bike better than most men.'

But Christine's daughter proved to be with the rest of the family. Matthew was there, too, although he had his own flat over the old stables. She was a small, silent, grave-faced girl with a slightly fey quality about her who was introduced as Lindsay Hammond, the girl who had confirmed that Matthew had arrived home at about eleven on the night of Fontenoy's murder. She had straight brown hair and big grey eyes and was wearing a thick, cream Arran sweater, as if she were cold, though the heating was switched on and the flames of a cheerful fire were licking up the chimney, their light reflecting on the glowing bronzes. Matthew, on the other hand, was wearing sweat pants and a short-sleeved T-shirt that revealed muscular arms. He looked less than pleased to see them but had lost that air of desperation he'd had when they'd first talked to him.

The family had just finished an early meal. 'We were about to have coffee, will you join us?' Christine offered politely.

'Thank you, that would be nice.'

'I'll get it,' Lindsay said, and disappeared, to reappear with a tray only a few moments later. Outwardly cool and composed as she poured the coffee with neat, economical movements, yet she seemed tense and withdrawn, giving an impression that she had erected an invisible barrier around herself plainly saying 'Keep Out'.

As for Wilding himself, he seemed quite unworried, looking relaxed and casual in a soft tan cashmere sweater and slacks, totally in command of himself, central to the situation. A hard man to upstage, he would enjoy being the focus of attention. There was a vitality about him, even sitting relaxed, with his long legs outstretched, that made everyone else seem lethargic, though Christine Wilding wasn't a woman to be overlooked by any standards, and this second marriage had all the outward appearances of a successful partnership. For all his confident manner, Jake Wilding often looked at his wife before he spoke. Abigail sensed a strong bond, stronger than they were perhaps aware of. And wondered again at the misery she'd seen in Christine's eyes when she had arrived at the shop on the morning after the murder.

Mayo didn't waste any time. 'I'd like to check over your statement, Mr Wilding. You said you arrived to see Mr Fontenoy at ten p.m.?'

'I've already told you all this – but all right, if you must. Yes, I got there at ten and stayed with him for about an hour

I think it was an hour but I can't be sure.'

'And got home, as Mrs Wilding confirmed, at quarter past eleven?'

'Actually, we made a slight mistake about that. It may've been later, probably nearer midnight, or just after.'

Although he said 'we', there was no agreement from his wife, who stared into the fire, her extraordinary turquoise eyes luminous in its light, her hair a vibrant fall of copper around her face.

'Midnight, then,' Mayo repeated. 'I see. And what were you doing in between?'

'It'd escaped my mind when I spoke to you earlier that I'd called in at my office, my main office in Chandlers' Way, on the way home. Sorry about that.' Wilding's smile was all-encompassing, an easy smile which anticipated no trouble, though he must have known his alleged forgetfulness was a blatant fabrication which wouldn't deceive a soul, let alone a couple of police officers who could spot a lie at fifty paces.

'Any particular reason for going back there at that time of night?'

'I wanted to be alone for a while to think about what Nigel and I had been discussing.'

'That would be the matter of the loan?'

An impatient expression crossed Wilding's face. 'Oh yes, the loan. Yes, that was it.'

Like hell it was, thought Mayo. It was something more than that. 'And you sat there for nearly an hour, thinking it over?'

'It took some thinking about. There were ... conditions.'

'What conditions?'

'I'm sorry, I don't see that has any bearing on what happened to Nigel.'

'I wouldn't be asking if I didn't think it had.'

'Look, I've told you what you wanted to know, where I was, what more do you want?'

Mayo gave the man a hard stare, seemed about to press him, then tried another tack. 'Is there anyone who can verify what you've just said? Did anybody see you there at your office?'