Blue Murder (14 page)

‘The clothes that were in the washer,’ said Butchers. ‘Disappearing act. Lesley Tulley denies all knowledge.’

‘Mr Vincent,’ Butchers ventured, ‘the lad he saw running, he was wearing sports pants, the sort with stripes down the side.’

Janine considered this. ‘The sort my boys calls go-faster stripes. Inspector?’

‘Possibly …’ Richard answered. ‘I only saw them briefly but they were something like that.’

Janine drew an arrow between the note up there about the clothes and the unknown suspect seen running from the scene by Mr Vincent.

‘I don’t believe in telekinetics,’ Janine said. Butchers looked lost, an edge of panic in with his muddled expression. Janine waved her arms, mimed someone making an object move with brainwaves. ‘They have to be there still. We’re watching the place so they won’t go anywhere.’

‘Bins revealed nothing, nor the initial search,’ Richard told them.

‘Opportunity?’ Janie asked.

Richard indicated the timeline he’d drawn up. ‘Some blanks,’ he pointed to the hour after Lesley had got her parking ticket.

‘Shap will be checking CCTV footage,’ Janine said.

Shap groaned.

‘Ferdie Gibson,’ she turned their attention to the second suspect. ‘Unconfirmed alibi unless you believe his doting mother sat and watched him sleep.’

A chuckle rippled through the room.

‘Motive?’

‘Revenge,’ Shap said. ‘Ferdie never forgave him for the thumping.’

‘Taken his time,’ Janine pointed out. ‘A year since Ferdie last had a go. Evidence?’

‘Eyewitness,’ Butchers said smugly, sitting back, arms crossed over his belly. Meaning Mr Vincent.

Shap rolled his eyes.

‘Saw a lad running away on Saturday morning. The description fits Ferdie.’ Richard summarised.

‘Ferdie’s got his invite for the line-up,’ Shap said.

‘Ferdie’s mate Colin; he was well stressed when questioned.’ Butchers added.

‘Our weakest link. Might want another bite at Colin,’ Janine said. ‘And now a third suspect, Dean Hendrix, missing from home, previous form, same M.O. Last victim survived – just.’ She held up a hand in warning. ‘I don’t want us to assume this is a series, not yet. We need to work away at all three candidates. Tomorrow, Press Conference at eleven plus forensics should be back before that.’

There was a muted cheer.

‘Meanwhile, we keep doing what we do best: gathering evidence, checking statements. I want every house ticked off, every resident accounted for. We go over what we’ve got and we keep looking.’

She paused, looking over the faces of the team. Shap, one leg going, dying for a fag already; Butchers, plumped up like a hen with his lead on Ferdie; Chen, not giving much away but intent, learning fast; Richard, the two of them working well together, mutual respect and a similar approach to the case. ‘I’m sure there’s a bet on already,’ she said. Shap grinned and Butchers squirmed in his seat. ‘I don’t need to know about that. But don’t let it affect your judgement.’ She pointed to the wall. ‘That knife is out there somewhere, the clothes worn by the killer are out there, the person who owns that trainer,’ she tapped the enhanced print with her hand. ‘The one who left dabs on the tap. Matthew Tulley’s murderer is out there. Find them,’ she looked from detective to detective. ‘The first 24 hours were crucial, the next are doubly so. Don’t let me down.’

*****

Emma had taken a key, so the knocking couldn’t be her. The police weren’t coming back, not till tomorrow. Lesley held the newspaper rigid in her fingers, pressed her feet tight to the floor, bit her teeth together. It was him. Coming after her. She remained frozen long after the knocking had stopped and the caller retraced their steps. The only movement an occasional blink and the tiny pulse which flickered fast in her throat.

*****

Butchers and Shap came out of the meeting quarrelling. ‘We see the CCTV stuff now, then we can go back there,’ insisted Shap, ‘get it done sooner.’

‘Look,’ said Butchers, ‘you heard the boss, loud and clear, every resident accounted for. She couldn’t make it plainer, could she? Nothing about me doing the CCTV. And I’ve Mr Simon to see. Split up.’

‘Eh?’

‘We’re not joined at the sodding hip, are we?’ Butchers retorted, though he couldn’t have said why he felt so irritable. Apart from the fact that Shap was a smart-arse, who he’d not have chosen to work with. Who hadn’t even had the grace to acknowledge that Butchers finding a witness had been a substantial break.

‘The store will close in fifteen minutes, will customers please make their way to the checkouts.’

Janine was shattered, she could feel every bone in her feet and she had a dull ache in her lower back. She waited at the checkout with a trolley piled high. The man ahead paid and Janine began to unload her groceries.

Her phone sounded loud and brash, she was beginning to think that even The Birdie Song was better than this regimental tosh.

‘Mr Simon, the guy who was first on the scene, boss. Wears slip-ons, never trainers.’ Butchers told her.

‘OK. When we’ve got the make confirmed, we’ll have a look at Ferdie and friend. And Dean Hendrix when we find him.’

‘Should I check the other gardeners?’

What did he mean? Loading items with one hand, phone in the other. ‘Butchers, they’ll have been covered in house-to-house.’ Surely? Silence. ‘You established no one used Tulley’s tap? No one had set foot on the plot?’ She couldn’t believe she was having to ask this.

‘Not, erm … exactly. We asked if they’d seen owt suspicious you know but not exactly whether they’d used Mr Tulley’s tap …’

‘Oh, bloody brilliant. So the dab and the footprints might be down to some Flowerpot Man filling his watering can. Good of you to share that with me, Butchers. Get back to all the allotment holders, now, and see exactly if anyone took water from Tulley’s tap and when.’

The checkout girl and the customers in the queues either side, stared at her, eyes bright with interest. Janine slid the large milk cartons onto the conveyer belt.

‘Yes, boss. Should I take prints for elimination, boss?’

‘No, Butchers, you shouldn’t. You’ll only need to do that if someone says they used the tap, won’t you. Christ!’ If Butchers had been present she’d have been tempted to deck him. She slammed the ice cream down and began to unload several large pineapples.

‘You favour one of the other gardeners for this, Butchers?’ she said sarcastically. ‘Know something we don’t?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Sure? No one getting a bit carried away with his fish, blood and bone mixture?’

‘No boss.’

‘Fine,’ she hurled the tins of beans down. ‘Because I have got a dead man on my desk, Butchers, and I’d like him off it before the maggots start to hatch!’ She pressed end call.

The checkout girl was gawping at her.

Janine shook her head, leant closer. ‘Just can’t get the staff,’ she said confidentially.

The girl smiled uncertainly.

*****

She asked Pete how Michael had been while the other two climbed into her car.

‘Not seen much of him He went round to his mates after lunch. I told him to be back at yours for eight.’

‘He won’t report it.’

Pete shrugged. ‘Not much point.’

‘Pete!’ They’d always been pretty much in agreement about the kids, the moral lessons to teach them, the rights and wrongs. Was it Tina’s influence? Or just another form of needling that he’d discovered? Something to confuse the fact that he was the guilty one.

He turned and began walking away. ‘You thinking about him, Janine – or how you look at work?’

‘Piss off!’ she flung after him.

*****

It was on the box, they watched it at Colin’s place. Ferdie called it the caravan. Ignored Colin who told him it wasn’t a caravan – it was a static. Should have kept his trap shut. Something else Ferdie could wind him up with.

‘Fame!’ Ferdie shouted after and started clapping. He nodded his head at the whisky Colin had opened.

‘Refill.’

Colin passed him the bottle. He’d had enough of the stuff last night, puked his guts up till there was nothing left. Ferdie – he could drink bleach and he’d not bother.

Colin lit another cigarette. Wondered how long Ferdie planned on staying. Need a cool head for the next day. Remembering, Colin felt his bowels loosen. He wasn’t cut out for all this. Doin’ his head in.

*****

DI Mayne had spoken to Shap about the CCTV tapes that had been collected from the car park. There was only the one camera but it covered the entrance, which was where their interest lay.

Richard told Shap to study the tape between nine and eleven for Lesley Tulley’s car. ‘Fast search if you like but don’t miss a thing, see if she doubled back. ‘Course,’ he went on, ‘she could have got a cab in-between times and leave us none the wiser.’

‘Don’t,’ DCI Lewis had groaned, overhearing.

Shap had been scanning the film for half-an-hour, and his eyes were going. He needed a fag an’ all and it was past knocking off time. Rumour was The Lemon wasn’t granting much overtime to the enquiry and Shap didn’t do the job for the good of his soul. He saw a silver car, right sort of shape and paused the tape but it was the wrong registration, earlier model too.

Time to call it a day.

*****

Janine had just lugged in the last two bags of shopping when Michael made his entrance. Staggering in with a silly grin on his face.

‘Michael?’

The grin dissolved and he looked pale then, clenched his mouth tight. ‘Feel ill.’ His speech was slurred. He giggled.

‘You’re drunk! What have you been drinking?’

‘Vodka – and cider.’

‘Upstairs,’ she pointed.

Tom jumped into the room and rolled across the floor. He peered up at his big brother. Frowned. ‘What’s wrong with Michael?’

‘Now!’ Janine told Michael.

He set off, his footsteps heavy and uneven.

Janine sighed. Praying he wouldn’t throw up all over the carpets, or his duvet. The washing threatened to overwhelm her as it was. What if he’s got alcoholic poisoning, needs his stomach pumping? Her heartbeat increased. Stop it! Bad enough without anticipating worse.

‘I’m starving,’ Eleanor wandered in. ‘Mum, did you get the present?’

Janine held up a box of hair decorations from the supermarket. ‘Thanks, Mum. Have we got any wrapping paper?’

It was never-ending. ‘Dining room drawer.’

When Ellie had gone she rang Richard. ‘Hi. Raincheck time. I’m sorry. We’re only just back and something’s come up with Michael – or is about to.’

She gazed at a row of pineapples on the work surface. Did she buy them? Why on earth did she buy them? Maybe her body was telling her something. Some mineral she needed found only in pineapples. Or maybe her mind was going. Pregnancy could do that –addle the intellect.

Richard told her not to worry and they’d try it some other time.

Half-an-hour later and she was doling out spaghetti and garlic bread.

‘I just want bread,’ Eleanor said.

Janine was tempted to quiz her but she was sick of debating food with her daughter. Food had somehow become an area for argument instead of something nice to share. She wouldn’t get drawn into it anymore. ‘Fine.’ She kept her tone light.

Sarah knocked on the back door.

‘S open.’

‘You not got your glad rags on yet?’

‘Not going?’

‘Why?’

Janine darted her eyes towards the two kids and said. ‘Tell you later.’

Sarah caught on: not in front of the children. ‘Right. See you then.’

‘What’s a beach whale?’ Tom asked. ‘Does it live on a beach?’

Janine felt her hackles rise, suspecting Pete of slagging her off to Tina.

‘Who’s been … Beached whale. It’s one that’s washed ashore and can’t get back in the sea.’

‘It’s on my story tape.’

Ah. God, she was knackered.

*****

Eddie Vincent had had a cup-a-soup for his supper. Not that he was hungry; as he got older and closer to the end he ate less and less, but it made a change from drinking tea. It had been growing dark by the time he’d finished. He struggled to his feet and went to close the curtains. He had turned the telly on. Eddie liked the wildlife programmes best. And science. There’d been a great series on about the universe and the planets. He could have watched that all day long. Whatever was on was just finishing. The credits rolling.

Yesterday’s
Evening News
was in the kitchen but he hadn’t got the energy to go and fetch it. He sat down, his hands wrapped round his belly for comfort. The pain wasn’t too bad at present.

The titles came on for a documentary about the war,
My War, Our War
. He shuffled in his chair. Maybe he should turn it off? Save the upset. But he didn’t move. He watched with a growing sense of fascination and unease as men his own age and older talked of their experiences. Of homesickness and conditions at the front, of letters home, and shrapnel and friendship. Two spoke of killing. One, chap, a little wizened man from Wales, could only estimate how many men he’d killed in fierce fighting in North Africa. Another, a blind man with a rough Yorkshire accent, spoke about killing a German, a boy his own age, and of losing his faith. ‘I know it was a just war,’ he said, ‘we were fighting the Nazis, but it was hard to see any justice in that act.’

Eddie had closed his eyes and leant his head back against the chair. He’d never told anyone. No one to tell now. In those days you didn’t speak of it. It was too raw. It wasn’t dignified to spill the beans like that. Those that came home, it was like their secret. Not the stuff you told to sweethearts and kiddies. Not even your parents. He’d never even told Maisie. Best left unsaid. You got asked now and again. Young lads in particular. Did you kill anyone? What’s it like to kill someone? Heads full of heroes and comic books, the pictures at La Scala or the Empire, with Jimmy Stewart and John Mills being noble and decent to stirring theme tunes. You never told them. The youngsters. Shook your head. Never let on.