Killing Me Softly (17 page)

Abigail obscurely wanted it to be none of them. Pardoe excepted, who had his alibi, they were all people she liked. But these were brief thoughts, and dangerous. Personal likings had nothing to do with it, they only got in the way. She sighed and pushed her chair back. It was getting to her, this case. A nastiness was permeating through it.

Deeley breezed in from the humming incident room with a tray of coffee she'd asked for, a canteen doughnut she hadn't, and a further stack of reports. What she saw as the lack of progress was making her feel guilty. Guilt was an unproductive emotion, arousing compensating needs. She ate the doughnut and felt worse rather than better, finished her umpteenth cup of coffee, ran a hand through her hair. Slapped the case file closed and asked George Atkins, her fellow inspector in CID, if he could spare her a few moments, away from the incident room.

‘Tell me about Wishart senior,' she asked, when they were alone, with no fear that she'd be disappointed. She liked George, despite the permanent reek of old tobacco about his person, though he knew better than to puff away at his evil pipe in the presence of either her or Mayo, both of whom waged a constant, if ultimately unsuccessful, war of attrition against it.

‘Freddie Wishart? Oh, great character, Freddie.' The chair creaked under his weight as he lowered his backside on to it. ‘This county lost the best cricketer we ever had when he went. And you couldn't have wished for a nicer chap, by all accounts.'

‘What made him kill himself?'

Atkins blew his lips out. ‘Who knows? But – like father, like son, I imagine. He had his financial problems, too, as I remember.' George had been doing his homework, and he added, giving her an old-fashioned look, ‘You met his widow yet?'

‘No, that's a pleasure to come.'

‘Your pleasure rather than mine. Sybil Wishart's reputed to be a bitch, twenty-four carat. And likes her tipple nowadays, I hear.' He lifted his elbow, miming a drinking action. ‘Brought a lot of money to the marriage but went through it, plus what Freddie had, like water, or that was the rumour. True or not, he died a bankrupt.'

‘So Tim wouldn't have inherited anything through his father? Made his own money, did he?'

George smiled, the closed smile which had become habitual because of the pipe normally jammed between his teeth. ‘Whatever he did make, he lost, so I'm reliably informed. If there's anything left for his wife and kids, it'll have been down to Sam Nash, I should think.'

‘There wasn't much love lost there, George.'

‘Ah, but Sam had his daughter to think of, didn't he?' He drank the last dregs of a pint mug of tea. ‘Well, if that's it, I've work to do.'

‘Thanks for the briefing, you're a wonder, George.' A vision of Milford Road nick without George's inexhaustible supply of local knowledge passed before her mind's eye. It didn't bear thinking about. He was less of an inspector than an institution. He was working steadily towards his retirement, due within the next year, and speculation was rife as to his successor, but this appeared to trouble Atkins not one bit. He plodded on in his usual phlegmatic way, competent, unspectacular, but more often than not confounding the computers with his memory.

‘What are you going to do when you retire, George?'

Automatically, he pulled his pipe from his pocket, looked at it regretfully and held it with the bowl cupped in his palm, caressing it with his thumb. ‘Might work in private security. I've had one or two offers.' He shrugged, not wanting to talk about it, and she knew he was as reluctant to go as Milford Road would be to lose him. He stood up and made for the door. ‘I'd get a damn sight more money than I do now.'

As the door closed behind him she wondered if George had been one of the people Nick Spalding had approached.

She hadn't entirely forgotten her promises to Nick, and had put one or two things in motion, but other events had taken precedence over contacting him. She'd nothing of any significance to tell him, but now a new idea occurred to her. She thought rapidly. The last hour had been the only quiet oasis in a hectic day. She'd already planned what was left of it and there was no way she could reschedule, but a quick check with her diary told her she could squeeze in a few minutes with him on her way to see Ellie at Miller's Wife. A talk with Ellie was, she'd felt, overdue, and Ellie had agreed, albeit not very willingly, suggesting her workplace as a rendezvous.

She was lucky enough to find Nick at home when she rang.

While Abigail was making her way to meet Nick Spalding at one of the new coffee shops along Coronation Wharf, Mayo was squeaking down the hospital corridor, wishing he were anywhere else.

Gynaecological wards rendered him tongue-tied and had him falling over his own big feet; he was embarrassed by this mysterious world of women and their complaints, and ill-at-ease and angry at his own inadequacy. After all, he was no boy, no stranger to female ailments, he knew what it was all about. He'd been taken in minute detail, albeit unwillingly, through all the various uncomfortable stages of pregnancy with his wife, and the disease which had later killed her. He was aware of the trauma Alex must be facing, but he viewed the whole situation with male perplexity, able to understand with his mind but not really with his emotions.

‘I've come to take you home, love.'

Alex was already dressed, nothing of her short, sharp ordeal evident except for a certain big-eyed wanness. Ready to leave, armed with a list of instructions and strong injunctions from the sister. Chocolates dispensed to the nurses, flowers and plants left to brighten the wards. Except for the freesias, slightly papery-looking now, some of their fragrance lost but not all, to be clasped in her arms all the way home, and stubbornly kept until they withered and their scent was just a memory.

Abigail walked to her meeting with Nick, reminding herself to make sure Mayo knew about it. It would raise her standing with him. A dedicated walker, he'd dragged her reluctantly around often enough. It was bound to be quicker than getting herself jammed into the traffic around the circuitous ring road, anyway.

The short cut through the Cornmarket and the old part of the town, via Butter Lane, meant passing Lois French's shop. As usual, Interiors was a feast for the eye, glowing from across the narrow street. Abigail wondered if Alex was truly happy in what she was doing. Interior decorating was about as far from the police as you could get. She was going along with it, but Abigail had lately detected a dangerous trace of wistfulness and nostalgia when she spoke of the old days.

Damn you, Nick, she thought, damn you for stirring it up. He could be manipulative. No one knew that better than Abigail, even when she'd been in love with him – or fancied she was. Yet how much was Alex likely to be influenced by Nick's persuasions? Cool, level-headed Alex, who was always in control?

The afternoon had deteriorated even more by the time she left Butter Lane and turned into Stockwell Street, parallel with the river. The street had gone upmarket during the recent redevelopments, or as upmarket as Lavenstock would take. There were now shops selling wine and cheese, one or two discriminating boutiques, even a hopeful new bookshop. But it was very quiet, no one else in sight, not much trade going on, and her footsteps rang with an uncanny, hollow reverberation.

She cut through Cat Lane, between the bookshop and the newly tarted-up Nag's Head, an alley with a notorious past and a not too unblemished present. Too narrow for comfort on a dark night, or at any time. Despite herself, she quickened her footsteps until she emerged on the embankment. She walked along with the collar of her raincoat turned up, her hands shoved deep in her pockets, moisture clinging to her eyelashes, and the drizzle making a halo around the streetlamps. It was already dark enough for a string of fairy lights, outside the Community Centre, to be reflected palely in the dark, oily surface of the water. It was dangerously high, the river.

Along the waterfront, the defunct old warehouse quays and landing stages, originally intended to serve the needs of the industrial traffic along the waterways, were vanishing in a plethora of patios and waterside gardens. Very soon, all the old buildings would be gone. In summer, the gardens blazed with flowers, and chairs and tables were set out in front of the ground-floor shops and cafés beneath the expensive, newly converted warehouse apartments, popular with young Birmingham city executives. The whole area, from river to canal, had been attractively landscaped. Overdone, some felt, prepared to argue the point at length. The last thing Ben had done before he left was finally to put an end to a hotly debated and ultimately tiresome correspondence on the subject in the columns of the
Advertiser.

Nick was waiting for her at the Holly Tree, and immediately signalled the waiter. ‘What will you have?' He looked terrible. He was nervy and on edge and his eyes glittered.

It was self-service here when they were busy, but you got more attention at times like this, when only another two tables were occupied. Hot chocolate, advised the waiter, who seemed inclined to chat. The dark, rich, frothy sort that was a speciality of the house, he said, adding in an aside that it was better than either the tea or coffee on offer, which would have to improve – though the almond gâteau was worth trying. He looked disappointed when Abigail, regretting the doughnut she'd eaten earlier, aware of too much caffeine already consumed, plumped for tea only. Nick ordered likewise. ‘Any news?' he demanded as soon as their order had been placed on the table, getting rid of the talkative waiter with a dismissive nod of thanks.

Abigail watched the waiter reluctantly sidling away. A short, swarthy boy, who looked like a gypsy and spoke with a public school accent. She'd seen him around, but couldn't remember where.

‘Nothing useful, Nick.'

One thing she could tell him was that she was fairly sure Roz hadn't embarked for Tuscany by air. She'd had inquiries made about airline tickets, and certainly Roz hadn't made any booking through any of the travel agents in the town. It was possible she'd booked direct, or she might have decided to drive, via the Channel tunnel, but when Abigail put this last suggestion forward, Nick dismissed it out of hand, stating categorically that Roz hated driving any distance and would do almost anything to avoid it.

Abigail sipped her tea in silence for a moment or two. ‘Well, that's all I have. Sorry I haven't been able to do more. But I've had other things on my mind since then.'

‘That chap who shot himself? The one in the papers?'

Wishart's death was naturally headline news locally, a scoop for the
Advertiser.
Ben had missed the most exciting thing to happen in Lavenstock for months. The Wishart name had been one of consequence in the area for generations, and details of the family history had filled the front page. Inevitably, comparisons had been drawn with his father's suicide. Nick would have seen the reports and guessed she'd be part of the investigation.

‘You don't want to believe all you read in the papers.'

‘How's that?'

‘He didn't shoot himself.' There was no harm in telling him, it would soon be public knowledge. ‘We've had the path report and we're treating it as murder.'

‘Murder? Poor devil!' Nick stirred his tea with jerky, nervous movements, so that the liquid slopped into the saucer, lit a cigarette and took a long drag, drawing smoke into his lungs with suicidal recklessness, but it seemed to calm him.

‘Funny how things turn out,' he said eventually, watching her through the smoke. ‘All weekend I've been trying to remember where it was that Roz had worked, that temporary job she took, and then when I saw his name in the paper, Wishart, it clicked. That's the name of the woman who runs that place, isn't it, where I ran into you the other night?'

Where you were waiting for me, Abigail amended silently. And wondered at yet another chance happening. Or was it? With Nick, you could never be sure. The impact of what he'd said suddenly struck her.

‘You mean
Roz
worked at Miller's Wife?' She'd long since ceased to be amazed by life's coincidences, but this
was
amazing. She'd given neither Ellie Redvers nor Clare Wishart, not to mention Nick and his wife, scarcely a thought for weeks, months, and now here they all were, crowding in on each other, like stars moving through space to form a cluster. And what about Miller's Wife? Events and conjunctions appeared to be stirring around that place, too.

She showed him Wishart's photo, handsome, arrogant ... ‘Ever seen him before, Nick?'

‘This is the victim – Wishart?'

‘Yes.' She'd had hopes that he might have recognised the dead man from the photo. Several people at the station, besides George Atkins, had known him. His face had often featured in the local papers in connection with various events. Moreover, he was his father's son, and his father was remembered as popular sporting personalities always are. True, it was now some time since Nick had left Lavenstock, but Wishart had been around during his time here, and Nick had always had a facility for remembering faces, as well as for ferreting out and storing up information, not all of which he necessarily saw fit to pass on.

His response in this case was disappointingly negative. ‘Can't say I've ever seen him.' She wasn't sure whether she believed him or not.

He stubbed his cigarette out, half-smoked. ‘So that's it, then. We're no further forrard as far as Roz is concerned, and you've no more time to bother with it – understandable, but thanks anyway.'

‘Just a minute, Nick, not so hasty. Listen to what I have to say.' She topped up her cup. ‘As you know, there's a man we're looking for.'

Still looking for, she might have said. It shouldn't have taken so long to trace Wishart's visitor, not if he'd had a legitimate excuse for being at the mill, or even if he hadn't. Having sources, snouts you could rely on, was a matter of course in CID, but the criminal fraternity seemed to have been afflicted with a sudden, remarkable amnesia, even those with a previously one hundred per cent total recall.