No Escape (The Kent Fisher Murder Mysteries Book 8), page 24
“You’re going to draw him out?”
Why not? I’m making this up as I go along.
“You could offer him the box in exchange for your wife.”
While a trade sounds appealing, the killer won’t want Gemma or me around to reveal his identity after he gets what he wants. But he’ll have to keep her alive until the swap, which gives me time to prepare.
“Get the box, Alfie.”
“Lubbly jubbly.”
He disappears into the bowels of his shop, leaving me to my thoughts. The more I think about it, the more I doubt whether jealousy and obsession are the motives driving the killer. If he was upset about Gemma marrying me, why kill Halliday and Marshall?
Is it because they could identify the killer or because he groomed Gemma?
Did he want to own her, to control her?
Did he tell her to stop seeing other men?
When she refused and tried to dump him, did he threaten her? Did he strike her? Then, the minute he went to work, she walked out. Needing to vanish, she fled to Brighton.
Once again, something flashes through my mind.
I concentrate, turning my thoughts back, wondering if I’ve missed or overlooked anything.
What about the red gloves?
They were a reminder of the time she was drunk with Marshall and Halliday in a hotel room.
Now the two of them are dead.
What about the person who took the photograph?
Is he in danger?
Or is he the killer?
Alfie returns with a metal box, the size of a small attaché case. He places it on the table and steps back. “I haven’t opened it.”
I take a photograph with my phone and then open the box. I take another photograph of the worn black leather binder that looks like a Filofax. Lifting it out, I can see the pages are well thumbed. There’s nothing else in the box.
Halliday’s name, together with the address and phone number of his video shop, date the binder to the 1990s, maybe earlier. He’s run his video club for over thirty years. Flicking through the pages of this year’s calendar, I find the usual birthdays and significant dates, together with what look like reminders.
The entry for the second Friday of our honeymoon reads, Gorgeous Stratford.
Gorgeous Gemma was the name on the DVD in Marshall’s studio.
Halliday’s neat and even writing looks like typescript, suggesting a careful, methodical man. In the next section, he records ideas for films and compilations, videos to replace and source. He’s discussed new projects with Eddie Marshall.
The final section contains an address book. Far from comprehensive details of subscribers, I find entries for his mother, Eddie Marshall, Alfie Patel and Gemma. He’s also got the details of his doctor, dentist, optometrist and chiropractor.
I look up at Alfie, who’s hunched over his phone, playing a word game.
“There’s nothing in here,” I say. “Could someone have taken the subscriber list?”
“If you mean me, I told you I never opened the box. Bryan said it contained all the information he needed to run his business.”
“Then why didn’t he lock the box? Why hide a binder in a metal box in the yard of a second hand furniture shop? When did Halliday put the box in the shed, Alfie? Were you here?”
“He didn’t tell me about the box until a few weeks ago.”
“When he said it contained all his business details.”
He nods.
“Did he say anything else, Alfie?”
“He was spooked when a guy from Trading Standards came round, asking awkward questions, wanting to check his paperwork. Before you ask, Bryan didn’t mention any names. He said the guy was more like a copper than a trading standards officer.”
“When was this visit?”
Alfie shuffles in his seat. “The day before his office was burned down.”
“He put the binder in the shed the day before his unit was torched?”
Alfie nods and gets to his feet, telling me he’s late for a collection. While I’m sure he knows more, years of dodgy deals and cash in hand payments have made him tight-lipped. There’s also the possibility he’s afraid a bogus trading standards officer might visit him.
On the drive back to my flat, I go over and over the same few details, wishing I could work out what I’m not seeing. In the study, I repeat the process.
What happened to Halliday’s subscriber list?
Is it written in invisible ink?
A recollection from my childhood reminds me of writing in lemon juice and then heating the paper with an iron to reveal the words. It sounds like something from Enid Blyton’s Famous Five books. For a kid trapped in a damp basement flat with a bitter and twisted mother, those books took me to a world of adventure I yearned for.
I saw myself as the sixth member of the Famous Five, which explains why I struggled with maths at school.
I replay my conversation with Alfie, trying to recall the moment something flashed through my mind. I was thinking about the boyfriend who was upset with Gemma for modelling. Even if this boyfriend hassled or threatened her, she would not have wanted to leave London and her role in Matilda, which could have led to bigger and better parts.
Then I realise how slow and unbelievably stupid I am.
Fifty-Five
While I haven’t fitted all the pieces together, I’ve identified a strong motive for what’s driven Gemma’s former boyfriend to kill. I should share my suspicions with DC Foster, but she’ll come round with Penn, who’s top of my list of suspects. He’s old enough to have been the boyfriend. He’s also a bully, which makes him jealous, possessive and controlling.
If I approach Ashley, she’ll want evidence before she accuses one of her own.
If I don’t approach her, we could be too late.
I text her, hoping intrigue will hook her. She rings back within seconds.
“You’ve solved the case, haven’t you?” She sounds frustrated. “I knew you would. You always do. Okay, tell me who to arrest.”
“I haven’t solved anything. I need your help, but you’re not going to like it one bit.”
“After the roasting I’ve had, I don’t care anymore.”
“What roasting?”
“Someone grassed me up. They saw me sneak round to Blossom’s house and talk to you. My guv thinks I fed you details about the investigation. He hit the roof and threatened to suspend me. With my record, he’ll put me back in uniform and send me on school visits. If I’m lucky I’ll get to use a speed camera. Shall I bring a pizza round like old times?”
“It wasn’t that long ago.”
“It feels like a lifetime, Kent. See you in half an hour.”
I should use the time to run the hoover round, but Columbo likes to leap onto the head of the cleaner as I push it across the floor. The teeth marks show how determined he is. While he enjoys attacking the cleaner, it takes me twice as long to clean the floors.
Instead I feed him, reducing the amount of food to leave room for pizza later. I let him outside to run around, knowing he’ll be back, having watched me put plates to warm in the oven.
If it involves food, Columbo’s wise to it.
Once prepared, I return to the study, wishing I had Halliday’s subscriber list to show to Ashley. Solving the murders might put her back in her guvnor’s good books.
Without the list, it’s all guesswork.
A lucky break wouldn’t go amiss, but you have to earn them. Do I deserve one? My reaction to Gemma’s past, especially the glamour modelling and her work as an escort, were hardly enlightened. Even now, I don’t want to think about what she did.
When Gemma’s back, I’ll have to confront these issues or my marriage will flounder before it’s barely started.
How can I even think about such things when her life’s in the balance?
What’s wrong with me?
The rage inside me homes in on the binder in my hands. This throwback to yuppie days should be revealing the identity of the killer, not filling me with frustration and anger.
I stare at Halliday’s smug, neat handwriting. The man encouraged teenage girls to take off their clothes and make videos to titillate men. Girls like Gemma, who was struggling with her father’s drug habit and AIDS. Beautiful yet vulnerable, desperate for money, she was drawn into Halliday’s web when he promised her a future in acting.
It’s like everything that’s wrong with the world and my life is wrapped up in this yuppie throwback, filled with information that tells me nothing.
My hands grip the cover, ready to rip the binder in two. But I don’t.
I’d like to think self-control and reason overcame my anger, but it’s nothing so grand.
It’s the missing stitching at the base of the spine. About two centimetres wide, the missing stitches are barely noticeable. If I hadn’t tried to rip apart the covers of the binder, I may never have spotted the damage.
Hearing the click of Columbo’s claws on the floor, I place the binder on the desk, ashamed that I let anger blind me. My lovely, gorgeous wife is a prisoner somewhere and I’m losing my cool with a glorified diary.
Spotting Ashley’s Audi in the lane, I scoop up Columbo, who enjoys looking out of the windows. He licks my face and gives me an encouraging wag of the tail. When he spots Ashley, he barks and wriggles, almost escaping out of my arms. I set him on the floor and watch him scamper away. Outside, he rushes up to intercept her, leaping up at her legs.
Niamh waves from the small garden in front of her house. Ashley walks over and they talk for a short while like old friends. They both look thin. Ashley’s growing her wild hair back, but it makes her face look gaunt, haunted almost. Her grey jacket engulfs her and she keeps reaching down to hoist her trousers.
“Niamh wants me to try her vegetarian curry pasties,” she says, stepping into the kitchen. She hands me two pizzas and grins. “She thinks I need fattening up. I told her I’d prefer a good man, but pasties would be more trustworthy. You must be pleased to have her back.”
My smile gives nothing away.
Ashley pulls off her jacket and drapes it over a bar stool. “You need someone like Niamh at a time like this. I only wish I could do more to help you. I’ve been next to useless.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“No, Kent, some things need to be said. I’ve let you down, trying to please my guvnor instead of helping a mate. Since Mike’s death, I’ve lost my way. It’s like he’s taken my mojo with him to that veranda in the sky. I never used to doubt myself or have to check my work two or three times for mistakes. I’m not eating properly, as you can tell,” she says, pulling at her baggy blouse. “I miss your company. I miss solving murders with you, even if you do it better and quicker than me. You were my best friend and I spoiled it by resenting your success and feeling inadequate.”
She gives me a stoic smile. “Don’t tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself. I’ve kicked myself up the arse so many times, my leg aches. Now,” she says, grabbing the pizza, “let’s get this down our throats. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
We sit at the breakfast bar, talking about the sanctuary as we devour the pizzas. We slip far too many titbits to Columbo, turning the fur around his mouth red. Not that he minds. Once we’ve finished and retired to the sofas, he leaps up beside Ashley and rests his chin on her thigh, soaking up the attention she gives him.
“So Kent, what do you want to tell me?”
“I think a police officer killed Halliday and Marshall.”
“You said I wouldn’t like it. You were right.” She looks at me with worried, dejected eyes. “I’m guessing you lack evidence, which is why you want my help.”
I nod.
“If I check another officer’s file, the system will record my actions. My guv will bounce me out of the force quicker than you can blink.” She gives me a helpless shrug. “If I help you and you’re wrong, Kent, I’m finished.”
“I only want to make you aware of my suspicions, Ashley. I don’t want you to do anything that will draw attention to you or alert the killer.”
“You should be talking to Naomi Foster.” She stops and gasps. “It’s not her, surely.”
“No, I think it’s William Penn.”
Ashley lets out a long, low whistle. “A cop would explain the lack of forensics at both scenes. Then again, everyone who watches CSI on TV thinks they can commit the perfect murder. Tell me why you suspect him?”
“I think he worked for the Metropolitan Police about six to eight years ago. That’s how he came across Gemma and started a relationship with her.” I draw a breath. “He also threatened Halliday’s mother, Jessica Jones, saying he’d tell the press her son was a paedophile.”
“Halliday was interviewed about having sex with a girl of fifteen. Her parents found topless photos of her on her phone. She claimed Halliday forced her to have sex or he’d post her photos online. Later, she admitted to having sex with a boy at school, but he denied it. Officers couldn’t find any photos on Halliday’s phone or PC so he was released without charge.”
“There must be a record of Penn looking this up on your database.”
“He didn’t need to. My guv was one of the detectives who investigated the case. He told us the whole story.”
“It doesn’t rule out Penn.”
“No, it doesn’t. And you’re right, he was a detective constable in the Metropolitan Police before they transferred him to Sussex.”
“They transferred him?”
She nods. “Let’s say his attitude to women did him no favours.”
Fifty-Six
“What about his attitude?” I ask, curious to know more about William Penn.
Ashley hesitates, as if she’s already said more than she intended. “He had a problem with women in authority.”
“Then why did they team him up with Naomi Foster?”
“They’re equal in rank, but she’s more experienced. She won’t take any nonsense from him.”
“How about when he’s on his own, threatening elderly women?”
“If Penn’s the killer, we need incontrovertible proof, as the lawyers say. If we could talk to Gemma, we’d soon ...” She winces and clasps her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Kent, that was unforgiveable. I didn’t mean to ... What’s wrong with me? I can’t seem to get anything right these days.”
She’s on her feet, heading for the stairs, pursued by Columbo.
“It’s okay, Ashley. I know what you mean.”
“It’s not okay.” She turns, looking distraught. “You must be out of your mind with worry, wondering how Gemma’s coping, whether she’s still alive. You’re also trying to find her and track down her killer. I should be helping you, not making thoughtless remarks.”
“Then stop feeling sorry for yourself. What’s really upsetting you?”
She stares at me for a few moments and sighs. “I’ve had the hump since my guvnor allocated Gemma’s case to another DI.”
“He gave you a watching brief.”
“I’m supposed to be watching you, not conspiring with you. His words, not mine.”
“Penn reported you, didn’t he?”
“It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.” She straightens and walks back into the room. “What do we need to do?”
I head for the kettle, giving myself time to consider whether to mention Halliday’s binder. Though there’s nothing incriminating inside, it’s evidence. I would have preferred a journal, detailing how he lured Gemma from Stratford.
Or did he?
No one’s confirmed he drove away with her.
Would he know how to avoid ANPR cameras?
Why did he meet someone at the back of a rural industrial estate when he could have taken her to Eddie Marshall’s house?
The questions make me doubt what I’ve learned.
What have I learned? What do I know about the bogus trading standards officer? What if he’s the killer, searching for the list of subscribers?
He knew about Alfie’s shed. How?
Why did he trash it? Did he lose control?
Or did he realise there was no subscriber list?
Does Alfie have it? Has he held onto it, hoping to make some money?
Or is his name on the list?
“Won’t be a minute,” I say, heading for the bathroom. I detour into the study and take another look at the binder’s missing stitching. The minute I hand it to Ashley, it becomes evidence and I won’t see it again. After locking the binder inside a desk drawer, I nip into the bathroom, flush the loo, and return to the lounge.
Ashley hands me a cup of tea. “You’ve had a text, Kent.”
I pick up my phone from the breakfast bar and read Tony’s message.
Kelly’s at Birling Gap. If I’m called to an incident near Brighton, can you take over?
I text back, saying it’s no problem.
“Message from Tony,” I say, sensing Ashley’s curiosity. “He likes to keep me updated.”
“He’s not being a pest, is he?” Her words and expression suggest she’s not too enamoured with him. “He’s like a dog with a bone when he gets a sniff of something.”
“He’s direct,” I say, “but you know him better than me.”
“You reckon?” Her laugh is hollow. She checks the clock on the wall, keen to leave, it seems. Yet she hesitates, restless fingers fiddling with her blouse. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks. “Has he told you I dumped him?”
I shake my head, surprised by the news after the way Tony spoke about her.
“I checked him out,” she says. “Maybe I was being paranoid, but he seemed too good to be true. He’s tall and good looking, with the body of Adonis and the charm to go with it. He could have any woman he wanted, Kent, so why was he interested in me?”
