Suspicion Points Read online

  ‘A woman was yelling in the front garden of Declan and Bridget’s – some of the time I couldn’t understand what she was saying, she had such a strong Irish accent. We did catch her saying, oh, something about, ‘you can’t stop me seeing my grandson’. But she was hysterical and crying. I assume it was either Declan’s mother or Bridget’s mother.’

  Kate said, ‘We weren’t going to stand on the footpath waiting for them to finish so we walked past their house. We looked, of course we looked. All three of them were there in the front garden. Declan was shouting at the woman. Bridget was standing there looking upset.’ She laughed. ‘Then Alice, in her most superior voice said, ‘Excuse me, do you think you could continue your appalling behaviour in the privacy of your own house?’ There was so much yelling that Phoebe and Stuart could hear it and came outside.’

  ‘Did you see the woman?’ I asked Phoebe.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Declan had just grabbed her and dragged her into the house,’ said Alice.

  ‘Even when we were all inside we could still hear it,’ said Phoebe. ‘Though not as loud, fortunately.’

  What sheltered lives these pampered creatures must have led. Arguments of that magnitude, and far worse, were common events where I grew up. If Alice had said that on our estate she would have been beaten up.

  ‘What did the woman look like?’ Robert asked.

  ‘Ugly,’ said Alice. ‘Grey hair.’

  ‘Skinny,’ said Kate.

  Craig shuddered. ‘Badly dressed. She looked as if she’d crawled out of a rubbish bin.’

  His repugnance both amused and annoyed me. It was all right for people like him, who could design and make superb clothes, to sneer because someone was badly dressed. The royal-blue jacket he was wearing would sell for a lot of money in his shop, but had probably cost a fraction of the price to make. I wondered if he and Yves made their own shirts. They certainly looked bespoke.

  ‘Sounds like Bridget’s mother,’ said Phoebe.

  ‘We’re no further forward,’ I said to Robert as we got into the car.

  ‘At least we’ve got confirmation about the bitterness between Declan and Mrs Bradley,’ he said.

  He was driving, but I saw him staring intently at the houses as we drove past.

  ‘What are you looking for, Robert?’

  ‘Nothing. Just looking.’

  ‘Can you see something I should know about?’

  He shook his head. We drove back to the station for an end of the day team briefing. I could tell Robert’s mind was far away. He didn’t respond to questions any of the others asked and didn’t comment on their investigations. He looked as if he hadn’t even heard them.

  At the end of the briefing I threw down my marker pen. ‘What’s wrong with you, Sergeant? You’re not on this planet. You look like a maiden dreaming about love.’ I had meant to make it sound like a joke, but saw by his scowl that I had failed.

  ‘I’m thinking about things relevant to this murder.’ He stood up and walked out.

  When I got home that night there was an e-mail from my older brother in Australia. As usual he’d attached photos of him and his wife and baby son in their gorgeous house with its swimming pool and four bedrooms in Perth. While I was scrolling through the photos an e-mail from my younger brother came in. With photos of him and his pregnant wife in their gorgeous house with its swimming pool and four bedrooms in Perth. He’d also sent photos of a flat they’d been to see. Considering the beach location, its close proximity to the city and the size of the rooms the rent was astonishingly cheap.

  Look at the big rooms, Sharon. The Aussies call it ‘God’s own country’ and they’re right. Here Sharon’s just a name. Not a working class label, but a name parents call their kids because they like it. I’m not looked down on because I’m called Wayne.

  Take the chance while you can. Don’t let mum and dad hold you back. What have they ever done for you?

  My brother’s ingratitude towards our parents always made me angry. Bringing us up on a council estate in Hackney, keeping us out of trouble and guiding us along the right path when there were druggies living near, must have been hard. But they made sure we had lots of good influences. I was a Brownie and my brothers were Cubs. We loved it so much they went on to join the Scouts and I became a Girl Guide. It was the discipline I got from the Guides that attracted me to the police.

  It was our dad who advised us to get jobs where we’d always be in demand. ‘Be a plumber or an electrician,’ he said to my brothers just after he was made redundant in 1990. ‘And, Sharon, you be a nurse. Always needed they are.’

  But I hated biology at school. So I decided on the police.

  ‘Good,’ said my dad. ‘Always in demand they are. Miners get laid off, factory hands get laid off, but when did you ever hear of mass police lay offs?’

  When he was made redundant he was okay to start with. He thought he’d get another job. When he didn’t and it became obvious that he wouldn’t, he started drinking heavily. I dreaded coming home from school to my mum crying or pleading with him to stop. Things got worse when they couldn’t keep up the mortgage payments on the council house they’d been so excited about buying. The romantic songs about money not buying love might be right, but they never sing about lack of money killing love. I saw it happen.

  When my older brother qualified as an electrician he went to Australia. As soon as my younger brother qualified as a plumber he went too. Now they were always on at me to go. They sent photos of beaches, and links to the real estate sites showing flats I could buy or rent and jobs I could apply for. I looked at the screen at the flat one of them had photographed and sent. It was large and modern and had two bedrooms, a balcony overlooking a garden with bushes, trees and brown grass and a communal swimming pool. The sky was cloudless and the sun glinted off the water in the pool.

  Could you afford a flat like this in the UK?

  No I couldn’t.

  7

  ROBERT

  As soon as I left the briefing on Monday evening I drove back to Farrier Way. Something I’d noticed had made an idea jump into my head. Thinking I might have been wrong, I checked every house. I was right. I decided to test my theory on Vanessa. When I got home I rang her. There was no reply on her landline so I rang her mobile. It went to messages before I remembered she’d gone to London to The National Archives to check the Metropolitan Police records for the woman who believed her father had been innocent of the murder for which he had been convicted. She was only staying one night and was probably on her way back to Cornwall now. I left a message asking her if she’d be free at dawn tomorrow morning.

  ‘Does it have to be dawn?’ she asked when she rang back.

  ‘Yes, sorry.’

  She groaned. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to see us and I don’t want Sharon to know what I’m thinking just yet.’

  ‘Okay. Where?’

  ‘Farrier Way.’

  ‘Which house?’

  ‘Park by the forest. I’ll meet you there. How’s the research going?’

  ‘The evidence does firmly suggest he was guilty. Can’t find any anomalies. Now I’ve got to write a tactful report.’

  Vanessa arrived first. I parked behind her.

  She jumped out of her car. ‘What’s – ’

  I took her arm. ‘We’re going to walk down Farrier Way and you’re going to look at the houses and describe what you see.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘All of them.’

  ‘All? Why?’

  ‘Just do it. Come on. Observe and tell me in detail what you see.’

  She looked baffled. We walked up the street and she looked carefully at the houses. When we got to the last one she said, ‘Apart from the fact that there’s a burnt house, I can’t see anything significant.’

  ‘Good. You’re strengthening my theory.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it.’

  ‘Tell me what you did see.’

  ‘
All the paths are straight and tiled in variations of cream, terracotta, white and black with rope tiled edging. The front doors are all different colours. They’re Edwardian, I think, with stained glass panels. Is it something to do with the doors?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘Original windows. Brass letter slot with curlicues. Am I looking for something unusual?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Most of the gardens have things for birds – feeders, bird baths or nesting boxes – some have all three. Is that it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Robert, give me a hint.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Some of the houses haven’t got cars or room for cars.’ Exasperation was creeping into her voice. ‘No one’s got net curtains. All the gardens are well cared for and have shrubs. Two have mini knot-gardens. There are no solid fences, just hedges. Some have gates, but most don’t.’ She frowned. ‘I give up.’

  I took her arm and we walked down the road and stood outside the house belonging to Yves and Kate. ‘Vanessa, put yourself in the mind of the arsonist. It’s night. Dark. He’s looking for a specific house. What does he look for?’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Okay. Maybe she. If it’s a targeted attack?’

  ‘All the houses look alike.’

  ‘Right. So how is he or she going to know which one is Bridget’s and Declan’s?’

  ‘The number?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Ah! You’ve found there’s no thirteen?’

  ‘What’s the number of this house?’

  The brass number was clearly visible on the white painted support of the porch. ‘One.’

  ‘So the next house should be?’

  ‘Three.’

  She yawned as she wandered to Bridget’s where the door and windows were boarded up. There was no gate and no number on the porch. ‘I can’t see any number.’

  ‘Let’s go to the next house, which is Phoebe’s and Stuart’s.’

  ‘I still can’t see any number.’

  ‘Look up.’

  She looked at the glass above the door, where the number was patterned in white among the decorative glass. ‘Oh. Three. Consecutive. The numbers are consecutive.’

  ‘Yes. If the road was numbered odds and evens as normal, Phoebe’s would be number five and Bridget’s would be three. The murderer sees number one and assumes the next house will be three. And number one is one of the few houses with a number on the porch. Most make do with the number in stained glass over the door. And as it was dark and there were no lights on inside . . . ’

  ‘So the intended victims might have been Phoebe or Stuart,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Exactly. I didn’t realize at first. We were just called to Farrier Way. No house number. When we got here there were fire engines so we didn’t need a number. The fireman told us that everyone had gone down to the end house. I never even thought about house numbers. I just happened to notice yesterday. I saw the number ten above Alice’s door. If the numbers were odds and evens her house would be either nineteen or twenty. And I started thinking what if the murderer was someone who knew Phoebe and Stuart’s address, but had never been to their house. It looked as if Bridget was the target, but it could have been Declan. Now we’ve got Phoebe and Stuart – one of them or both.’

  Vanessa looked at the other side of the street. ‘Why are the numbers not odds and evens? Those houses look the same as these. Maybe it was once two streets.’

  ‘Don’t think so. It’s not wide enough.’

  We crossed the road. The street name was also Farrier Way, and the houses looked identical, although the gardens were more manicured and net curtains hung in some of the windows. The doors were more plain with etched glass instead of stained.

  Vanessa nudged me. ‘Let’s go back to your place. You owe me breakfast.’

  I looked at my watch. ‘Can we make it dinner tomorrow night? I’ve got to take the car to the garage to have it’s MOT and Sharon’s calling early. We’re going to see the staff at the hospital where Bridget works.’

  ‘Are you going to tell Sharon what you’ve found out?’

  ‘I’ll have too, but I want something concrete to go on before I say anything.’

  While I waited for Sharon to arrive I debated how and when to tell her what I’d discovered. Trying to guess her reaction was difficult. Even if I had evidence that Phoebe or Stuart had enemies who hated one or both of them enough to kill, Sharon might scorn the idea and accuse me of trying to get Phoebe off the list of suspects because I was attracted to her. If she agreed with me, I suspected she’d claim the idea as her own. I didn’t care about that, as long as the case was solved.

  8

  SHARON

  On Tuesday Robert got into the car without acknowledging my, ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Sulking, Robert?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re very stony faced. What’s the matter?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘So you are sulking.’

  ‘I am not sulking. I am angry. We’re a team or we’re supposed to be a team. Calling me a dreaming maiden in front of everyone wrecks team spirit and makes me look foolish. Just because I’m thinking does not mean I’m dreaming.’

  ‘It was a team briefing. You weren’t taking part. I could tell you weren’t listening to anything I was saying. You weren’t, were you?’

  He looked amused. ‘I could hear your voice, but I wasn’t listening. Doesn’t mean I didn’t know what you were saying. You were going through the days events and I had nothing new to add. There was no need for you to be insulting.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to be insulting.’

  ‘What did you mean to be?’

  ‘I meant to get your attention.’

  We didn’t speak again till we arrived at the hospital.

  We were following the directions we’d been given at reception for the medical records department, when a man cannoned into me almost knocking me over.

  ‘Sorry,’ he gasped over his shoulder.

  Robert grabbed my arm to steady me. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We turned around and saw him running down the corridor.

  ‘He’s in a mad rush,’ said Robert.

  We saw a door marked Medical Records and pushed it open. A woman with black hair streaked with grey lay on the floor groaning. Two other women bent over her.

  ‘What happened? I asked.

  ‘She fell,’ said one of the women.

  The woman on the floor made unintelligible noises. Blood ran from her mouth. Some of her teeth had been knocked out. Behind her, four other women and two men were trying, and failing, to hide their glee.

  Elaine, I thought.

  ‘Who is she?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Elaine Dunn, the manager,’ said someone.

  After Elaine Dunn had been taken to accident and emergency, I introduced myself and Robert.

  ‘She fell,’ three of them chorused.

  I told them we’d come about the fire at Bridget Murphy’s house. We interviewed them in Elaine’s office one by one. They were all dressed in tan suits with brown shirts and brown scarves for the women and brown ties for the men. The fabric looked cheap. The shirts were made of something that looked scratchy and uncomfortable. Their ugliness made my olive-green trouser suit look chic.

  They had all heard about the fire from Margaret. In spite of the fact that a baby had been one of the victims, none of them appeared upset. No one expressed shock or horror. Although, as it was Tuesday and Margaret would have told them about it on Monday, perhaps any shock or horror they had felt, had worn off.

  Their alibis would be impossible to prove or disprove. They all claimed to have been in bed asleep, which given the hour the fire brigade had been called, was reasonable. Their stories about the bullying were the same as Phoebe’s. Some said they were sorry about the baby and two were unwise enough to say it was a shame Bridget hadn’t burnt to death, since the fire was almost certainly mea
nt for her.

  One thing I was learning about Robert was that he had the hearing equivalent of a photographic memory. It was why he let people ramble.

  ‘It’s like panning for gold,’ he once told me. ‘Precious specks among the dross.’

  We interviewed Margaret Fox last. I was certain I’d seen her before, but couldn’t think where. In contrast to the hideous uniform were her ankle boots that looked as if they were made of good leather and the pearls in her ears and necklace, which looked real. As if in defiance she had a pearl brooch pinned to the lapel of her jacket. Her wedding band was made with white and yellow gold and her engagement ring had a central ruby flanked by two diamonds. Her fingernails were well manicured and painted with frosted nail polish.

  Robert smiled at her. Before he could say anything, she said, ‘I saw you on Saturday afternoon.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Did you? Where?’

  ‘Pengelly House. I live there.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘I thought I’d seen you somewhere. So you were at the party?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I remembered now. Margaret had been in the kitchen throwing used paper plates, serviettes and plastic glasses into bin bags when we arrived. Her yellow jumper had gone well with her auburn hair and her jeans had showed off her slim figure. When she had finished tidying she had put out the food that was left over and offered us a drink.

  To my irritation she and Robert chatted about Pengelly House. I was about to interrupt when he finally got to the point and asked if there were any smokers at the party.

  Margaret looked puzzled. ‘Quite a few.’

  ‘Are they allowed to smoke in the house?’

  ‘Not in the communal areas. They can smoke in their own apartments if they want to – all the rooms have smoke alarms.’

  ‘So the smokers at the party had to go outside?’ Robert said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you tell us about Bridget’s relationship with the staff here?’ I said. ‘Phoebe said that everyone got on well before Elaine became the manager.’