Kennedy 01 - Into the Shadows (16 page)

Of course they were.

What would she say if she could see him now? What would she have said if she could have seen Michael being interrogated by the police? Would she have found it in her heart to forgive him?

Somehow, Jonathan doubted it.

She had loved that boy with every breath in her body, as Jonathan did, and she would have given her life willingly to spare him an hour’s sadness.

Jonathan hadn’t been able to meet his son’s gaze since.

Every time he looked at the boy, he saw accusation in his eyes. It was justified. How could he have left Michael alone to face all those questions?

What would his parishioners say if they knew he’d let his own son be suspected of murdering his mother, when all he’d had to do was tell the truth? He was supposed to take care of his flock, to guide them, to lead by example, and he had let them down.

‘Oh, Lord, I am so unworthy’

He had come here this evening to be quiet with God.

Instead, his mind was filled with Alice. He had loved her more than anything, more than God even, from the moment he first saw her, and he would still love her more than anything when he drew his final breath. It was her forgiveness he needed. It was her voice he needed to hear.

But Alice was gone and, somehow, Jonathan had to make a life for himself without her. He had to. For his own sake, and for Michael’s, he had to carry on without Alice by his side.

He must talk to Michael, too. They would discuss the subject of Michael’s future and Jonathan vowed to make that future bright. It was what Alice would have wanted.

If Michael didn’t want to go to university, and Jonathan strongly suspected he didn’t, and that he was only contemplating it to make his father proud, then together they would think of alternatives. What did it matter whether he went to university or not?

The silence was broken. Someone had slammed the outer porch door. Or perhaps the wind had increased.

Jonathan got to his feet. He turned to face the door, expecting to see Olive Prendergast or perhaps Mary Lee Smith with fresh flowers for the church, but no one came.

It must have been the wind.

That’s what he would do next, he decided suddenly.

While the people of the parish were united in their grief, he would start a fundraising campaign so the roof could be repaired. He would do it for Alice. Mary Lee-Smith had plenty of contacts and she loved fundraising. He would enlist her help. For his own part, he would work tirelessly.

There was another noise, one he couldn’t identify.

‘Who’s there?’ he called out.

There was no answer. It must have been the wind.

He walked towards the sound of the noise, and swung back the large oak door that opened on to the porch.

‘You? What are you doing here?’

Pennine View was unlit and it was reassuring to drive along it with Max’s headlights behind her.

As soon as Jill pulled on to her drive, the front security light came on and that, too, offered reassurance. There were shadows created by a couple of bushes, but it was as well lit as it could be. Max had to park on the lane, and she waited for him to catch her up before getting out of her car and locking it.

‘You OK?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ she replied automatically, but she was glad he was there.

She unlocked her front door, pushed it open and groaned at the amount of mail lying on the mat. They stepped over it, and Jill closed the door before picking it up and flicking through it. It was mostly junk mail.

‘Nothing of interest,’ she told him.

‘Good. A coffee would be welcome,’ he said hopefully, already striding off.

He checked downstairs first, then went upstairs. She heard him in the bathroom, then opening and closing wardrobe doors. She even heard him check the attic.

‘Just you and three cats,’ he said, coming back to the kitchen.

She hadn’t expected him to find anything else. To say she was relaxed would be a lie, though.

It was difficult now to assume that some crank was playing games with her. Valentine must have delivered that lock of hair. Jill had thought they could get it tested, and was surprised to learn that there was no DNA on cut hair. ‘You need a follicle,’ she’d been told. Nevertheless, she was convinced it was a lock of Anne Levington’s hair.

She was also convinced Valentine had sent it.

The kettle had boiled and she spooned two generous helpings of coffee into each mug. Instant would have to do. Let’s face it, after the sludge that came out of the machine at the station, anything would taste good.

Neither took milk or sugar so, after giving it a quick stir, she handed him a mug. He must have noticed the way her hands shook.

“I wish you’d get out of here, Jill. If you don’t want to stay at my place, stay with Kate. Or stay in a hotel.’

‘We’ve been through this before, Max, and my answer’s still the same. I refuse to be driven out of my own home by this creep. I have the cats to think about and ‘

‘Sod the bloody cats!’ Max exploded.

‘Even if it is Valentine,’ she said, ‘and even if he did get to me, which is highly unlikely, I don’t think he’d harm me.’

“I expect other girls have had that same thought. A pity they ended up in the morgue.’ He took a deep calming breath. ‘Unless you’ve got a new sideline I know nothing about, you’re not his usual type,’ he admitted.

‘Exactly.’

‘So how are you getting on with Cornwall?’ he asked.

‘Badly’ But perhaps that was her fault, not his. ‘He’s too ambitious for my liking, and he doesn’t listen. I’m sure he thinks I’m a waste of space.’ She gave him a wry smile.

‘Other than that, we’re getting along just dandy.’

There was a knock on her door and even that had her heartbeat going at an alarming rate. She had to calm down.

Michael Trueman was standing on her doorstep, his usual shy expression on his face.

‘Hey, what a lovely surprise.’ She grabbed his arm and dragged him into the kitchen. ‘This is Max. I expect you remember him.’

‘Yes.’ Michael shook hands with Max. ‘Good to see you again, sir.’

Max would be the last person he wanted to see, but that was typical of Michael. He was polite to a fault, and it was never forced. He respected good manners.

‘Sorry, I didn’t realize you had company, Jill,’ he said.

‘I’ll come back another time.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said briskly. ‘Max is just leaving.’

Jill gave Max a pointed look and was relieved to see him drink his coffee. If Michael had things on his mind, he was far more likely to offload them to Jill if she could keep his trust. He’d clam up with Max around.

‘Yes, I’m off,’ Max said. ‘Be seeing you, Jill. Night, Michael.’

Jill closed and locked the door behind him, then returned to the kitchen where Michael was stroking Rabble.

‘Fancy a drink?’ she asked. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going to have a Scotch. Fancy one with me?’

‘Whisky? I’ve never tried it,’ he admitted.

‘Then try it. Have a Scotch and ginger ale with me.

I think you’ll like it.’

She poured small measures into two glasses and added ginger ale.

‘I’m also starving,’ she told him, as she handed him a glass. ‘Will you eat with me?’

‘Oh, no, really. I don’t want to put you to any trouble.

I only called in to say hello.’

Left to his own devices, that’s all he would say.

‘How about an omelette?’ She checked the fridge. ‘I’ve got plenty of eggs, but it’ll have to be cheese or mushroom.

Fancy either of those?’

‘Cheese?’ he asked.

‘OK. You grate the cheese, and I’ll whip up the eggs.’

They moved around the kitchen companionably and then sat at the table to eat. Michael looked less edgy as time went on and it was good to see him relax a little. Or perhaps that was the whisky. He’d almost emptied his glass before the omelettes were even cooked. She hoped she didn’t get him into trouble with his father. Would Jonathan Trueman approve of her plying his son with alcohol? She doubted it.

When they’d cleared away the plates, Jill walked into the sitting room, giving Michael little option but to follow.

‘So how are things?’ she asked, sitting on the floor next to the fireplace. ‘How’s your dad?’

‘OK.’ He sat down, and Jill could sense the inner debate he was having. There was something he wanted to say, she was sure of it.

‘Do you want to talk?’ she asked. ‘I’ve told you before, I’m a good listener.’

“I don’t know what do.’ That was becoming Michael’s stock phrase.

He was immature, and more vulnerable than other lads of his age. No way could he cope without someone to talk to. What in hell’s name did the streetwise Becky make of him? Perhaps his vulnerability was part of his appeal.

‘What about your girlfriend? Surely you’ve talked things over with Becky?’

‘No. She’s not - I mean - well, I expect I read too much into that. I haven’t seen much of her lately’

Which probably put Becky in the clear.

‘Try telling me and I’ll see if I can help. You know what they say, two heads are better than one.’

He was silent for what, to Jill, seemed an age, but she was reluctant to disturb him.

‘When Mum was killed …’he said at last.

Again, this long silence. Jill wasn’t that patient. ‘Yes?’ she prompted.

‘It didn’t happen like that - like my father said it did.’

He referred to ‘Mum’, yet it was always the more formal ‘my father’.

‘Oh?’

“I got home just after two o’clock that day because the school closed. They’d had trouble for days with the fire alarms and sprinklers. That day, the classrooms and everyone in them were getting soaked so they sent us home.

I had a lift with Jack’s mother. Jack’s in the same class as me.’ He took a quick swallow of his drink. ‘My father was already there and Mum was already dead. It was my father who was standing over her with the knife in his hand. Not me.’

Jill’s mind raced with questions, but she kept her voice calm. ‘What did your father say?’

‘His first words were “You’re early.”’ Michael shook his head, as if, even now, he couldn’t believe that. ‘Erm, then he said he had to ring the police and the ambulance. He threw the knife down - it landed on Mum - and then he called 999.’

‘What did you do while he did that?’ Jill asked.

“I knelt down by Mum to see if I could find a pulse.

I thought she must still be alive.’

There had been two sets of fingerprints on the knife, Michael’s and his father’s.

‘There was a lot of blood,’ he said, eyes closing as he relived the memory. “I was covered in it. Then people started arriving, and the police wouldn’t let us move her.

I was still holding her. I didn’t want to let her go. My father was trying to resuscitate her and the ambulance men had to drag him away from her. People were talking to my father and he said he’d arrived home and found her - and me - like that.’

He opened his eyes; they were filled with panic.

‘Why?’ Jill asked calmly. ‘Why do you think he said that?’

Samuel wandered in and, despite not being a lap cat, promptly jumped on to Michael’s lap for some fuss.

“I was too shocked to ask him at the time.’ Michael absently stroked the cat. ‘Afterwards, when the police let me go, he acted as if that was what happened. He gets angry, furiously angry if I talk about it, so I don’t mention it now. It’s as if he believes it really happened that way’

His eyes suddenly filled with moisture. ‘She didn’t have any clothes on.’ A huge sob shook his body.

“I know,’ Jill said quietly.

All was silent except for the kitchen clock ticking loudly.

Jill had never noticed it before.

“I don’t know what to do,’ Michael said yet again. ‘At first I said nothing, and that was wrong. Then, when I thought it would be easier if I told them it had happened just like that and that I’d killed Mum, it was even worse.

They keep asking questions, day in, day out, and I can’t say anything right.’

‘Michael, do you think your father killed your mother?’

He was a long time answering. “I don’t know.’

‘OK,’ she said briskly, ‘you have to tell the truth.’

‘Who would believe me?’ he demanded.

“I do.’

‘Yes, but you’re different.’

‘Michael, the police knew you hadn’t killed her.’ Some of them had known it. ‘They can gather all sorts of information from the scene of the crime and your story didn’t fit.

The only story that will fit is the correct one. You have to talk to the police and tell them exactly what happened.’

He shook his head and Jill couldn’t blame him. The police had hounded him, and he’d had enough.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Trentham didn’t believe you killed her,’ Jill said gently. ‘Right from the start - well, almost the start, he didn’t believe it. He’s a good man, Michael. You can trust him. You must talk to him.’

He hesitated.

‘I’ll give him a call,’ Jill said. “I can ask him to come here and you can talk to him here. You’ll need to make a formal statement, but it will be fine.’

“I can’t. My father will -‘ He broke off, not knowing what his father would do. ‘It’s my word against his. Who’s going to believe me? He’s a bloody vicar, for God’s sake.

Thou shalt not lie and all that.’

If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Jill would have smiled at that. It was the first time she’d heard him swear, and the context amused her.

‘Why did he lie, Jill? Why did he tell them I did it?’

The poor, poor boy.

“I don’t know,’ she replied, ‘but it’s not your word against his. It’s the truth and the evidence against his.’

As far as Jill could see, Jonathan Trueman had lied to protect the killer. And that killer was himself. She could be wrong, but she’d bet her cottage that Jonathan had killed his wife.

“I can’t tell the police,’ Michael said flatly.

‘You have to.’ Jill reached for her mobile. ‘I’m going to phone Chief Inspector Trentham and ask him to come over.

Michael slumped back in the chair, resigned. And scared.

It was forty minutes later when Max arrived.