Suspicion Points Page 5

  ‘The time it takes to cycle from Pengelly House to Farrier Way, along the road, takes thirty minutes,’ Sharon went on. ‘There and back one hour. To set fire to their neighbour’s house would probably add another ten minutes. Overall, to do that one of them would have to be away from the party for over an hour. The cycling time from the back gate of Phoebe and Stuart’s house through the forest to Pengelly House is five minutes – one way. Ten minutes both ways. Give them another ten to start the fire and we have a total of twenty minutes maximum.

  ‘Phoebe admitted that she loathes Bridget who bullied her when they worked together. Revenge might have been her motive. Saturday night was cloudy and dry but cold. I don’t know yet if people were outside, but I’m sure at least some of them went outside to smoke. There was no hint of cigarette smoke inside Pengelly House when we visited. Given the age range of the people who live there, it’s highly unlikely that all the people at the party were non-smokers. If Phoebe was absent from the party and someone asked where she was, all Stuart had to say was, ‘Outside talking, I think’. She might even have been acting alone and told him she was going outside to talk to someone. Any questions?’

  There were none. Sharon, looking pleased with herself, continued, ‘If either Phoebe or Stuart are the arsonists, it’s possible they soaked the rags in an accelerant before they left for the party and put them in a plastic bag somewhere handy. That would cut down the time they were absent from the party even more.’

  ‘We need to check on the man who raised the alarm,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sharon. ‘Thanks for reminding me. I’ll contact the TV news channels and ask them to make an announcement.’

  Just after midday I drove to Bodmin with Sharon in the passenger seat. She asked if I wanted the radio tuned to Classic FM. It was her way of being conciliatory. She had a street directory and an ordinance survey map. She scorned satellite navigation systems and was an excellent map-reader. Unlike Judith. We had always rowed in the car. If I was driving and Judith was directing we’d get lost, because she couldn’t work out where we were. Then she’d accuse me of driving so fast she didn’t have time to see the signs. When she drove, and I navigated, she’d turn right instead of left.

  ‘It’s lucky you’re not a surgeon,’ I said on one occasion when we arrived at a party an hour late, ‘otherwise you’d amputate the wrong leg or cut open the wrong side of the body.’

  Even when we knew the route we quarrelled. I complained that she drove too slowly and was hesitant. By the time we reached our destination we’d be snarling at each other. Once when we were driving in France, on our way to a holiday cottage in Burgundy, Judith had thrown the map out the window. The memory made me smile.

  ‘You’re smiling,’ said Sharon.

  ‘Is it a crime? What deviant thoughts do you suppose I’m having now?’

  She leaned over and turned off the radio. ‘Robert,’ she said softly. ‘You’ve got to stop sniping at me.’

  ‘And you’ve got to stop sniping at me.’

  ‘We got on well before I was promoted.’ She sounded regretful.

  I didn’t reply.

  ‘We never talked about it.’

  ‘About what?’ I asked.

  ‘My promotion.’

  ‘I congratulated you.’

  ‘You looked very sour about it. You think you should have got it, don’t you?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I just don’t think you were the strongest candidate.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You don’t think things through rationally. You jump to conclusions.’ I saw her stiffen. ‘I’m not saying you’re not a good detective.’

  ‘It’s just that you think you’re a better one?’ Her voice wasn’t as caustic as I’d expected. ‘And you’re older than me and more experienced?’

  Sharon had spent more years in the police than I had, but she didn’t know it. ‘I’ve got a high success rate,’ I said. ‘You believe in facts and facts alone. I believe in combining facts, criminal profiling and psychology. And sometimes pure gut instinct . . . a feeling . . . ’

  ‘You don’t solve cases with gut instincts and feelings.’ She laughed. ‘I’m the one who should be talking about gut instincts and you should be scorning me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because feelings and all that are supposed to be a female thing.’

  ‘We’re people first and male or female second. I don’t believe in stereotypes.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘You were quick to stereotype Yves and Craig.’

  ‘To me, it’s obvious they’re homosexuals. I bet you’ve never solved a case on intuition alone.’

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘You have? Really?’

  ‘Yes. It’s one of the reasons I was promoted to Sergeant so quickly. How did you get your promotion?’ I know my tone implied it was because of her gender.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Robert, we’ve never talked about our lives in London and our reasons for coming to Cornwall. There’re things you don’t know about me. I could tell you, but I haven’t told anyone. But believe me, my promotion was nothing to do with political correctness. Okay? Go left at the next roundabout. We’re nearly there.’

  Mrs Bradley, Bridget’s mother, lived on a reasonably well kept council estate, which was nonetheless depressing in spite of the children’s playground and areas of grass. I said something like that to Sharon.

  ‘It’s ten times better than the council estate I grew up on,’ she said.

  I decided not to say, ‘That must have been bad,’ because however sympathetic I sounded she’d think I was being patronizing. As we climbed the stairs, which were mercifully free from graffiti and the smell of urine, we could hear the hum of conversation. The door to Mrs Bradley’s flat was open and full of people of all ages.

  An elderly woman saw us. ‘You the police?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sharon.

  ‘Right, we’ll all go and let you get on,’ she announced loudly. ‘Come on, you lot!’

  Obediently they began to leave. Sharon and I stood outside watching hugs and shoulder patting and hearing comforting words and promises to be back later or tomorrow. Judging by the intensity of the good-byes, Bridget had a lot of friends. It seemed that most of the visitors lived on the estate. Some went up the stairs. Others went along the walkway and let themselves into their flats. Soon only Bridget and her mother were left. We went inside and closed the door.

  The flat was clean and tidy with white walls. A huge flat-screen television was fixed to one wall. The sofa and armchairs were covered in zebra print material and matching curtains hung at the windows. Sympathy cards stood on the window ledge. Straggly flower arrangements were stuck into glasses and jars.

  Bridget was ashen, but ready to talk. Her leopard print sweatshirt emphasized her red and swollen eyes and tear stained face. Her brown leggings made her legs look like sticks and her white shoes had pointed toes and high heels that looked uncomfortable. She was so thin I wondered if she had an eating disorder. Her mother began collecting the plates and mugs. She said something to Bridget in a strong Irish accent. When she went into the kitchen Sharon sat next to Bridget on the sofa and told her how sorry we were. I sat in the armchair opposite.

  ‘It were Phoebe who done it,’ said Bridget before we had asked any questions.

  ‘So stop looking for suspects,’ said her mother as she came out of the kitchen. ‘It were her.’

  Sharon looked satisfied. ‘Have you any idea why?’ she asked Bridget gently.

  ‘Revenge and she’s jealous of me.’

  I wondered how much Bridget’s cadaverous appearance had to do with shock and grief. Even under normal circumstances she would have never been attractive.

  ‘Jealous?’ I said, trying not to sound incredulous.

  ‘We used to work together. Then I were promoted and were her boss and she got jealous.’

  Mrs Bradley went back to the kitchen nodding. Sharon wisely stayed silent.
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  ‘And I’ve got a baby,’ Bridget choked on the word baby and tears streamed down her face. There was a box of tissues on the coffee table and Sharon pulled out a couple and gave them too her. Bridget wiped her eyes and continued. ‘And she hasn’t.’

  ‘Does she want one?’ Sharon asked.

  ‘Want one! She’s desperate – all she has are miscarriages. Her first baby died just after it were born . . . lack of oxygen. The cord got twisted or had a knot in it or something. Who collected money for a huge bouquet of flowers for her? Me.’ She gasped for breath and began to cry again.

  Her mother came out of the kitchen and stood over her with a glass of water and two tablets. Bridget shook her head.

  ‘He said to take them. You got to help and you won’t if you can’t talk properly with all that crying.’ She looked at me. ‘From the doctor,’ she said. ‘He give them to us. Said they helped.’ Her tone was defensive. Did she think we were going to accuse her of giving Bridget something illegal? She prodded Bridget. ‘Come on, take them.’

  Bridget took the tablets and gulped them down with the water.

  ‘That Phoebe made my poor Bridget’s life a misery, so she did. Just because she were the boss’s favourite, it were. The stories I could tell you. When Phoebe worked there, poor Bridget used to come home every night worn out with the strain of it all, didn’t you, Bridget?’

  Bridget nodded, grabbed a pile of tissues and blew her nose. ‘I tried to be friendly when I moved next door to her, but she wrote me a nasty letter. You should have seen the way she looked at my baby.’

  ‘Jealous, she were,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Jealous. Sick with it. She had lots of reasons to be.’

  ‘Elaine, that’s the boss, didn’t like her, but she liked me and Phoebe got jealous.’

  ‘Tell them about them letters she sent to Elaine after she got made redundant,’ said Mrs Bradley.

  ‘Trying to make trouble between me and Elaine, she were,’ said Bridget. ‘Sent a whole lot of letters about how I was after the top job and said horrible things about her behind her back and that I hated her really. She never signed them or nothing, but I knew they was from her.’

  ‘How did you know they were from her?’ asked Sharon.

  ‘Sort of thing she’d do. Her way of getting revenge.’

  ‘Why was she made redundant?’ I asked.

  ‘Because she were useless. That’s why Elaine liked me and not her. Her degree counted for nothing and she were bitter about it. But what use is a history degree in a hospital? She were made redundant eight years ago and she’s still bitter.’

  Mrs Bradley nodded. ‘Wish she had of choked on it.’

  ‘Fails at everything she does,’ said Bridget. ‘Wants to be a writer, but her writing was rubbish – full of big words – I couldn’t understand it. She used to be a teacher, but gave it up because she couldn’t control the kids. Blamed them, she did – made out they was savages. Well, that’s what she said. More likely she got sacked because she was no good at teaching. I wouldn’t know the truth, would I? I weren’t there. She could of made up anything.’

  I’d put Phoebe’s age at about twenty-five. She certainly didn’t look thirty, and yet the time line was wrong. She’d been to university, been a teacher and eight years ago she had worked at a hospital.

  ‘How long did she work at the hospital?’ asked Sharon, who was looking as puzzled as I felt.

  ‘Four years,’ said Bridget.

  ‘She looks too young to have gone to university, spent – ’

  ‘What’s her age got to do with her being a murderer?’ asked Mrs Bradley.

  ‘Thirty-six, she is,’ said Bridget. ‘That another thing she’s got against me. Her time’s running out.’

  ‘Running out? What do you mean?’ asked Sharon.

  ‘For having a baby. I’m seven years younger than her.’

  I felt like telling her she looked ten years older, but reminded myself that she was the victim. Bridget was still talking, and I forced myself to look neutral. She was no longer tearful. Either the tablets had worked very quickly or her hatred of Phoebe had submerged her grief.

  ‘She’s one of them people that make excuses for everything. Instead of saying they never had enough money to get a car she made out they didn’t want one and went on about the pollution. Lots of things she didn’t have that I did – like a TV. Said she was too busy to waste time watching trash, but she couldn’t afford one. And that’s why they don’t eat meat. They can’t afford it. Nothing to do with cruelty to animals like she makes out.’

  Having seen Phoebe and Stuart’s clothes and furniture Bridget’s idea that they were too poor to buy basics like meat, confounded me. ‘Why do you think they didn’t have much money?’ I asked.

  ‘If they could afford them things they’d buy them, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Sharon. ‘Most vegetarians don’t eat meat for ethical or health reasons – the ones I know anyway.’

  ‘How can they afford things?’ said Bridget. ‘They don’t work. Probably living off benefits.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’ asked Sharon.

  ‘When I were on maternity on leave I never saw them going out in the mornings and coming back at night like they would of done if they was working. And when I’m home on annual leave it’s the same.’

  I decided that now was the wrong time to inform Bridget that Phoebe’s book was about to be published and that Stuart’s paintings were beautiful and he must make a lot of money from them.

  ‘Was Phoebe popular with the rest of the staff at the hospital?’ Sharon asked.

  ‘Not when they saw that things would go badly for them if they didn’t go along with all the improvements Elaine and me was making.’

  Phoebe’s allegations of bullying were confirmed. It struck me as odd that Bridget had no idea how she was depicting herself.

  ‘Did all the staff in medical records turn against Phoebe?’ asked Sharon.

  ‘Most of them. The ones that didn’t . . . one man went off his head, and there’s Margaret Fox. Don’t believe nothing she tells you. She’s Phoebe’s sister-in-law. Never liked me she didn’t. She felt threatened by my friendship with Phoebe.’

  Hiding my astonishment, I said, ‘You and Phoebe were friends?’

  She nodded. ‘Good friends once. Margaret tried to turn her against me, even before Elaine came. She were jealous. She wanted to have Phoebe all to herself just because they’d been to school together and were – ’

  Sharon interrupted her. ‘Bridget, there’s something I need to tell you. You may be asked to give a statement in front of the television cameras. However convinced you are that Phoebe did it, please don’t repeat your accusations in front of the cameras, because – ’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Mrs Bradley. ‘She were the one that – ’

  Sharon held up her hand. ‘There are several reasons, Mrs Bradley. The first one is for your own good. Phoebe and her husband have got good alibis for the time the fire started. If you accuse them in public you could be leaving yourself open to being sued.’

  ‘Can’t get no money out of me, she can’t,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I haven’t got none.’

  Sharon looked at Bridget. ‘You and Declan owned the house in Farrier Way, didn’t you?’

  Bridget nodded.

  ‘Won’t be worth nothing now,’ said Mrs Bradley.

  Sharon silenced her with a cold stare.

  I said, ‘Bridget, was your house insured?’

  ‘Had to be – part of the mortgage rules.’

  ‘Then the insurance will pay for it to be renovated, so it will be worth – ’

  Bridget looked alarmed. ‘Could Phoebe really get my money?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sharon and I said together.

  ‘If she’s innocent,’ I said.

  Mrs Bradley snorted.

  ‘All of it? She could get given all my money?’

  ‘Yes and you’d have to pay costs, so for your – ’

 
‘But it’s not fair – I’m the victim and she’s the – ’

  ‘The other reason is,’ Sharon said, ‘If you make your accusations in public it could compromise any trial.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘What does what mean?’ asked Sharon.

  Bridget looked exasperated. ‘Compromise. What does compromise mean?’

  I wondered how much effort it took Sharon to keep the scorn, she must have felt, out of her voice. ‘Weaken, jeopardize, undermine. Any case against her might be dismissed if you voice your accusations publicly. We’re grateful for your input and will investigate Phoebe thoroughly. Now, Bridget, how did you get on with the rest of the people in Farrier Way?’

  ‘Would of got on with them alright, but Phoebe turned them all against me.’

  ‘She’s a spoilt brat,’ snapped Mrs Bradley.

  Sharon was looking impatient.

  ‘What form did their dislike take?’ I asked before she decided we had enough evidence to bring Phoebe in for intensive questioning.

  ‘The old crones looked at me like I was dirt. The queers were – ’

  ‘Queers?’ asked Sharon innocently. ‘Which ones are they?’

  ‘Them clothes designers.’

  I expected Sharon to throw me a triumphant look, but she didn’t. Instead she pretended to look perplexed. ‘But they’re married, aren’t they? Isn’t one of the wives, the French one, pregnant?’

  Bridget’s face twisted with spite, turning her plainness into ugliness. ‘Don’t ask me how they managed that. I’ve seen them. I know.’

  ‘Know what?’ I asked.

  ‘They might have a bit of paper to say they’re married, they might own the houses in his and her names, but Yves and Craig are queers and Fleur and Kate are dykes.’

  Keeping all trace of animosity out of my expression and tone, and trying to look as perplexed as Sharon, I said, ‘But the girls are very feminine and pretty and one’s expecting a baby.’

  ‘Huh! I live next door to the house supposedly owned by Kate and Yves. But last summer they ate outside a lot, you know, when it were hot. One night I saw them all go out the back gate. I thought they must of been going to Fleur and Craig’s house. But a few minutes later Yves and Craig came back through the gate – alone. That was the first time I saw it and it wasn’t the last. Happens all the time. I’m onto their filthy secret.’