The Maggie Murders (29 page)

‘I told you earlier, he was
shagging Lin.’

‘Lin Ng denies any sexual
relationship between your late husband and her,’ countered Osborne with more
confidence than he’d shown for the last part of the interview.

‘Well she would, wouldn’t she?’

There hadn’t been much of an
answer to that. All they’d received was a cock and bull story about Gerald
Mallowan meeting Lin for secret assignations above the shop on every early
closing day. It seemed the Mallowans got their money’s worth out of their maid
by getting her to clean the shop once a week as well.

They’d been trying for over an
hour to find a chink in her armour and yet she had dealt with all their
questions effortlessly. The expensively tailored lawyer beside her had had
virtually nothing to do to win his large fee for being there.

She had coolly answered all their
questions about her relationship with Gerald and had not seemed disconcerted by
their attempts to embarrass her when they asked about her lover, or her reasons
for marrying Gerald. Although her lawyer had tried to dissuade her from
answering, she had candidly admitted that Gerald’s injection of cash into her
business had been a motive in marrying him, calmly batting the googly back at
them by suggesting that most people married for sex or money.

When they’d raised the manner of
her first husband’s death, she hadn’t gone to pieces or looked flustered, but
had simply observed he was the one man she’d married for love. Nevertheless,
they had pressed on, both firmly believing that they had their woman.

‘Did you vote Conservative at the
last election?’

‘As my legal representative is
about to tell you, we do have secret ballots in this country, Superintendent.’

Once again, her advocate had
hardly had to ripple the creases on his bespoke suit, as his client continued
to hold the floor.

‘But would you say you admired
Mrs Thatcher?’ pursued Jane.

‘She’s a strong woman and I like
strong women. How about you, sergeant? What’s your view on powerful women? I’m
sure you must find them more stimulating than the men in your life.’

‘Some might say that Mrs Thatcher
is quite a ruthless woman?’

‘It’s funny how people don’t have
a problem with strong men, isn’t it Superintendent? Is it just that you public
school boys can only cope with mummy and matron?’

‘So, she wouldn’t get your vote?’

‘Nice try, sergeant. But if I
went for a politician it would have to be Paddy Ashdown.’

‘You’d vote for the Liberal
Democrats?’

‘They’ve the best looking man,
Sergeant. Not that there’s much competition, but at least Ashdown has that
rugged, action man quality which floats my boat. How about you, does Paddy
Pantsdown tick your boxes?’

‘And what about your interest in
reading thrillers?’

By the time Jane had asked this
question, even she knew it was just a forlorn hope. The expensive advocate had
probably been about to shape a withering response, when once again his client
negated his need to be there.

‘Not a crime is it? If you’ll
pardon the pun,’ she smiled.

‘Did you find ‘The ABC Murders’
an inspirational read?’ flashed Jane.

And yet it hadn’t got under
Maggie’s radar; she batted it back to them, as coolly as she had dealt with all
their other questions.

‘As a matter of fact I did. I
thought it was rather clever, although I’m not so sure how clever you’re going
to look with this line of questioning. Are you now trying to blame Agatha
Christie for my husband’s death?’

‘No, we’re just considering
whether there might be a link between one of her plots and the motive for your
husband’s death,’ answered Jane as calmly as possible.

‘And so the next time you find
someone stabbed to death on the Paddington to Penzance express, I suppose
you’ll arrest the entire carriage and blame it on “Murder on the Orient
Express”, Sergeant?’

‘What about the idea of
concealing a crime in a sequence of others?’ demanded Osborne.

‘It’s a lovely idea,
superintendent, but I’d think you’d be better sticking to Boys’ Own fiction.
You and your lovely assistant have such fertile imaginations it’s just a pity
to think how repressed you must be in all other aspects of your lives. Though
of course you have my number, if you’d like any counselling; I like to think
it’s not just the police who can be creative when it comes to making up
fantasies.’

‘And how creative are you Mrs
Mallowan, we know you went to Art school?’

For a moment, Jane thought she
glimpsed something beneath the beautiful mask, but it went just as quickly as
it came.

‘I don’t think we sell anything
in ‘Scandalabra’ half as creative as the police can concoct. Or dare I say,
half as controversial. Your case against Constance Baker could have been
entered for the Booker Prize! Now, are you going to bring charges against me in
the hope of fabricating another miscarriage of justice, or do the two of you
still have some hopes of continuing in your careers? I hate to think about what
would have happened to DCI Spilsbury if the cancer hadn’t given him an easy way
out…’

It was Osborne’s hand on her
shoulder which had stopped Jane reacting at that point. She hated herself for
feeling so angry, but Maggie Mallowan could have had a successful second career
in acupuncture, given her ability to place a needle so precisely on her
pressure points.

‘And what if we told you that we
had a witness who could place you at the scene of Calum Baker’s death on the
night in question?’

Jane hadn’t meant to ask this
question; even she knew it was a last act of desperation, but she had to try
something to shake the self-possession of the woman facing her. She knew the
face value of the evidence Debbie had given her, but it was all she had left.

‘Would that be our taxi driver
friend? If you’re going to rely on perjurers and prefabricated evidence, I
think I may as well leave now having rendered plentiful assistance to your
enquiries.’

Maggie Mallowan was already
rising to leave when Osborne officially terminated the interview.

Any hope that Jez Carberry might
have contradicted what she was saying in the other interview suite went
unrealised.  No knock at the door came to inform them that Carberry had changed
his story at the thought his lover might be a multiple murderer. DCI Jordan and
DC Clark had been no more successful than they had; although they at least had
been dealing with a more compliant suspect. Jez though had been resolute in his
lover’s defence and had only become upset when Sandy Clark had suggested he was
being taken for a ride. When Jordan had suggested the idea that Jez’s lover
might be The Rub-a-Dub murderer, he’d laughed incredulously at the idea.

And now given that Jez had
corroborated her alibi and that the search of her house had also revealed
nothing pertinent to the case, they were going to have let her go without
charging her. The one real hope they’d had was that one of them would crack and
neither had given an inch.

It was only when they’d switched
the tape off and were preparing to leave that Jane had nearly over-stepped the
line. Still shaking at the vividness of the memory, she went in search of Tim’s
precious malt whisky.

****

It was in the back of one of the
lower kitchen cupboards that Jez discovered Steve’s house warming present. The
bottle was buried under a pile of old computer magazines. Well, he had little
need of the flat’s capacious food storage facilities given the number of
eateries in the vicinity. It was as he was dislodging his booty, that he noticed
the small packet jammed at the back of the cupboard. Figuring that a few
aspirin might be in order the following day, he went to recover it, only to
discover it was a half empty packet of sleeping pills.

Puzzled, he poured the garish
liqueur into a clean tumbler and considered the unexpected find. It was
possible Luke or Stuart might have left them there, but given their addiction
to caffeine in all its forms he’d be surprised, whilst he personally had no
trouble sleeping. Sipping on the exotic drink he hardly tasted its vile
sweetness as his earlier mood of uncertainty returned to worry him.

There was something the pretty
detective had kept harping on about in the interview which was trying to fight
its way through the alcoholic wall he’d been trying to build. He’d become
indignant in the interview and had been appalled by some of the questions
they’d been asking him. Though fortunately he had been prepared; many of the
questions were the ones he half expected his father to be asking him about her in
the very near future. Of course the facts were that they’d made love and then
she’d left him in the morning; she always did. And why would he remember that
particular time any better than all the others? It wasn’t as if it was a one
off!

Pick a date at random, say 6th
July? Could anyone really remember what they were doing, or had done on a date
like that? If something special, or out of the ordinary happened then maybe,
but why would just another normal weekday stick in the memory? Most normal days
were like any other, with perhaps only the weather, the people or the
background music changing.

 And yet his memory of that
particular morning had not been as distinct as he thought he remembered it.
Crumpling the packet in his hand, he knocked back another half tumbler of the
bright yellow liquid; sometimes oblivion was the preferable option.

****

Pouring some of Jen’s diet coke
into Tim’s single malt, her hand still trembled as she recalled the moment when
her career had stood on the line:

‘You’re free to go, Mrs
Mallowan.’

Jane had looked on as her prime
suspect elegantly straightened her clothes, shook back her ash blonde hair and
then Maggie Mallowan had had the temerity to return her stare.

It had been deeply unsettling in
a way she still couldn’t explain; there was a word she was feeling for which
might have described it, but at the same time she instinctively wished to
smother the very idea she had almost grasped.

‘I’ve seen you before, Sergeant.’

‘I don’t think so,’ had been
Jane’s stiff reply.

‘No, I never forget a face and
you’re rather pretty, despite your years. Probably more fun than laughing boy
over there.’

She had gestured at Osborne who
was still smoothing his hair. And then Maggie Mallowan had touched Jane’s hair
in a way which made her feel violated. Even now, looking back, she could still
feel her gorge rising at the memory.

‘That’s it! You were in that café
behind the coach station. It was the one with all that New Age shit; though it
does sell some very decent coffee and proper bread. Can’t say I thought much of
the man you were with – I presume it was your husband? Wasn’t he feeding a
baby; I think it started yowling as I was placing my order?‘

Jane had tried to turn away, but
there was something compelling about the way Maggie’s eyes bore into her.

‘Such a happy family grouping;
Mrs Plod and her brood. Your children no doubt? I can’t say I’m really into
girls, but your son is rather sweet, isn’t he? I expect he gets his good looks
from you. He must be about the same age as Jez when I first met him. What do
they say sweet sixteen and never been kissed? Why not have him pop around to my
house one day, I can always find an opening for an eager young…’

Maggie Mallowan never had a
chance to finish her sentence as Jane’s hand moved to strike her. Fortunately
for Jane, Osborne had been even quicker than her. She felt her wrist encircled
in a grip of steel less than an inch from their suspect’s face. If the DCS
hadn’t been so quick, or if Mallowan’s solicitor hadn’t already stepped out of
the room, then Jane would have found her own career in ruins. But unlike
Spilsbury, she’d been given another chance.

As it was Maggie Mallowan gave a
triumphant smile and glided out of the room on her high heels.

It had taken an hour for Osborne
to have even begun to calm her down. She would have still been in their local
with him if her anxiety on checking on her children hadn’t made her fly home as
soon as she’d felt a little more collected. As it was she’d already put in two
calls from the kiosk outside the pub to a very surprised Tim. Jane realised
there was no logic to her feelings and that there was no rationale to the
threat she’d received, still she felt a good deal better with her family all
accounted for and the front door double locked.

She knew now that she’d given
Maggie Mallowan the reaction she’d wanted. Her buttons had been pressed more
times than those on a vending machine for chocolate bars outside an overeaters’
anonymous meeting and she’d fallen for it.

Osborne had been very sympathetic,
literally pouring wine down her throat, but he at least hadn’t given into
Maggie Mallowan’s goading. Although he’d been gallant enough to admit he too
had been severely tempted to snap and good humoured enough to joke that only
the old school courtesy of his public schooling had prevented him from doing
so.

She added more of Tim’s whisky to
the glass; well at least the family still had a breadwinner left and she could
replace the whisky tomorrow. And she could at least put the lie to some of
Maggie’s taunts when Tim had returned from putting Max to bed.

Unfortunately though, they still
didn’t have a case to make against Maggie Mallowan. After the failed attempt to
prosecute Connie Baker for the murder of her husband, based on very similar
circumstantial evidence and a trumped up statement from a supposed star
witness, both detectives realised they were going to need a watertight case
this time around.

Their one hope of extracting a
confession had failed; their lady was not for turning.