The Other Woman (11 page)

The questions had started then, and he had lied in answer to almost every one. Hot sweats of sheer panic would come over him every time anyone came into the room, but nothing had happened, except the questions. They had brought him something to eat.

Now, he looked up as a new face came in. A man with short, receding hair and a dark complexion. He waited for him to say something, but instead he toured the walls, reading notices, looking out of the window, doing anything but look at him. It irritated Colin.

The man switched on a tape recorder, and told it that the interview with Colin Drummond was in the presence of Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd and DC Harris, then resumed his contemplation of the scene outside the window.

‘No views here,' he said, in a Welsh accent. ‘Not like Malworth. It's a pretty town. I've a friend who lives there.'

Colin didn't speak, and the man still didn't look at him.

‘You were in a bit of a hurry to get home last night, weren't you?' he asked, still absorbed in the lack of view from the window.

‘Yes, sir,' said Colin.

He turned then, eyebrows high on his forehead. ‘Do you know,' he said, ‘I can't remember the last person who called me sir who wasn't obliged to.' He indicated Detective Constable Harris. ‘He calls me sir,' he said. ‘ Well, to my face.'

Colin smiled, not wishing to offend, as did Harris, presumably for the same reason.

‘You told my officers that the clothes you were wearing this morning are the ones you were wearing last night,' he said.

Colin nodded.

‘Can you say yes or no, Colin?' asked Harris.

‘Yes.' Black shirt, jeans, leather jacket, boots. That was what he always wore. They had taken them away, and given him sort of white overalls.

Lloyd nodded. ‘Were you at the football ground?'

‘No.' Another lie.

‘The thing is, Colin, we took tyre impressions from the muddy grass at the entrance to the club. Motorcycle tyres. They match your motorcycle tyres, Colin. Right down to a small flaw in the tread of the front tyre.'

Colin licked his lips.

‘So. Were you at the football ground?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Why?'

Colin frowned a little. ‘To see the match,' he said.

‘There was a fight there.'

‘Yes.'

Lloyd nodded, standing behind the chair, his hands holding the back. ‘ Were you involved in it?' he asked.

‘No.'

‘Where did you get the bruises, Colin?' Lloyd asked.

Why did he keep saying his name like that? It was getting on his nerves. Too many people had seen the incident at the match for him to pretend he had come by the bruises that way; Colin told the same story that he had told since he had been brought to the station. ‘I came off the bike,' he said.

‘When?'

Colin shrugged. ‘I don't know.'

Lloyd's fingers tapped the back of the chair, and he gave a short sigh. ‘ The thing is,' he said, ‘the doctor who examined you says you couldn't have got those injuries by coming off your bike. He thinks you were kicked and punched. Were you?'

Colin shook his head, his heart beating painfully. Lloyd must be able to hear it.

Lloyd sat down and contemplated him for a long time. Colin looked at him, at the detective constable, and the tape recorder. He didn't speak.

‘Did someone kick and punch you last night, Colin?'

He shook his head vigorously. ‘ I came off my bike,' he mumbled.

‘Where?' asked Harris.

‘I don't know.'

‘The doctor says you get that sort of bruising from fists and feet,' said Lloyd. ‘ Whose fists and feet, Colin?'

He got up then, and walked round, so that he was standing behind him. Colin could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck.

‘But there's no real damage,' Lloyd continued. He bent down, and spoke into Colin's ear. ‘Sharon Smith was small, slight – she wouldn't be able to do much damage to a big lad like you – especially not if she was losing her strength.'

He threw a plastic bag on to the table with a sudden movement that made Colin jump.

‘Is that your tie?' he asked.

Colin shook his head. He never wore ties if he didn't have to. Who wore a tie with jeans, anyway? He wanted to say all that, but he couldn't. He'd told so many lies that even the truth was beginning to stick in his throat.

‘How old are you, Colin?'

He wished he would stop calling him Colin like that. He wished they would just let him go. He could have a bath, get rid of some of the aches. He could be home before his parents, if they would just let him go now. ‘ Eighteen,' he said.

‘Were you at the match alone?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you have a girlfriend, Colin?'

‘No.'

Lloyd sat down. ‘ Well,' he said. ‘They don't usually want to go to football anyway, do they?'

Colin shrugged.

‘Where were you on August the fifteenth at about ten thirty at night?' Lloyd suddenly asked.

Colin shook his head. ‘I don't know,' he said.

‘September the seventh, at about eleven fifteen at night? September the tenth, at eight o'clock in the evening?'

‘I don't know,' Colin said again.

‘You have a think,' said Lloyd. ‘And tell me where you were on these dates when I come back.' He stood up. ‘ Interview suspended, ten fifteen a.m.,' he said, and went to the door.

‘Are you suggesting that my wife had something to do with what happened to Sharon?' Simon didn't want to think about that.

‘No, of course not, sir,' said Sergeant Finch. ‘It's just odd. ‘‘A little puzzle'' my boss calls things like this.'

‘Does he?' said Simon.

‘Yes,' said Finch. ‘ Like the key.'

He had shown Simon a key; asked if it was something to do with the office. He hadn't recognised it. He had told him that Lionel might be able to help.

Finch looked round the little reception area where Sharon had worked. ‘ How well did you know Miss Smith?' he asked.

‘Well, I'd worked with her for six months,' Simon said. ‘It's a shock. I can't really take it in.' He wished to God that Sergeant. Finch would just go away and let him cope with everything that had happened in his own way.

‘Only six months? I thought she'd worked here for almost a year,' said Finch.

‘
I'm
the one who's only been here six months,' he said. ‘Well – not really that. I joined the practice in the second week of May.'

‘Oh, I see.' Finch smiled. ‘ I'm new to Stansfield too.'

‘Mr Evans will be able to tell you more than I can,' said Simon, in a desperate attempt to get rid of the man. ‘But he's away in Birmingham today.'

‘Had you had some sort of row with your wife, sir? That made her stay out all night?'

‘No!' Simon could feel his face grow pink. ‘I really don't understand why you imagine the two things are connected,' he said, and it sounded false even as he spoke the words.

Finch picked up Sharon's appointments diary and started looking through it. ‘We don't imagine they're connected,' he said, almost absent-mindedly, as he checked through yesterday's appointments. ‘They
are
connected. You are the connection.'

Simon sat down before his legs gave way.

It was almost an hour before Mac escaped. In the open-plan office, Melissa sat at a screen, apparently absorbed in what she was writing.

‘I've just been talking about you,' Barry Houghton said to him, as he passed.

Mac had seen the sergeant talking to Barry in the editor's office. In daylight, Sergeant Finch looked even younger than he had last night. Wasn't that a sign of growing old? He didn't feel old. He felt almost like the old days. Everyone wanted to talk to him, and he had a girl again.

‘He wanted to know how long you'd-been here, what sort of guy you were, that sort of thing.'

Mac smiled. ‘And you told him that I listed my hobby as motiveless homicide in
Who's Who
,' he said.

‘I told him you were clean, quiet, sober and industrious. You handed in your copy on time, and you'd been here two months,' said Barry. ‘Must have been a bit of a facer, that,' he said more seriously. ‘ Finding her.'

Mac nodded. He made small talk with a number of people, in much the same vein, and took in the desk at which Melissa was working.

‘You found her?' she said, still keying something in to her VDU, not looking at him.

‘Yes.'

‘After you left me?' Her voice was quiet; he could only just catch the words.

‘Yes. I didn't tell the police where I'd been.'

She looked up sharply then. ‘ Why not?' she asked.

He felt a little disappointed with her reaction to his gentlemanly behaviour. ‘ I've been asking myself that ever since,' he said. ‘But I just told them I'd got lost in the fog.'

A fleeting smile crossed her lips. ‘You were being gallant?'

He shrugged. ‘I suppose I was,' he said.

‘You might wish you hadn't,' she said.

Mac smiled. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘ Well.'

Someone made an entrance. It was hard to pinpoint
how
, but whereas other people had been coming in and going out all the time, he somehow made an entrance, and everyone turned to look.

‘Well, well – we meet again,' he said to Mac.

‘Chief Inspector …' Mac tapped his head. ‘I'm sorry, it's gone.'

‘Lloyd,' he reminded him, with what seemed like a touch of irritation.

‘Oh, yes.' Mac thought he'd better use his good excuse. ‘ I had to come in and give them my story,' he said. ‘I'm a newspaper man now.'

‘Quite,' said Lloyd, turning to Melissa. ‘Mrs Melissa Whitworth?'

To Mac's surprise, Melissa agreed that she was Mrs Melissa Whitworth. She was married. Of course she was married. But she didn't wear a ring; it simply hadn't occurred to Mac that there would be a husband.

‘Perhaps we could talk in there.' Lloyd indicated the editor's office, which the sergeant had some time ago vacated.

‘I'd really rather not,' Melissa said. ‘It creates much less attention if you speak to me here, though why you should find my activities so fascinating, I really—'

‘Mrs Whitworth,' he said, his voice low and angry. ‘ This is a very serious matter, and you may be able to help. I spent a long time last night with the mother of a murder victim. She had to identify her own daughter after she had been strangled. I doubt very much if I would find your activities remotely interesting at any other time, but I do today. And I'd advise you not to try being flippant.'

Melissa's eyes widened, as had Mac's. He couldn't take any of it in to start with. Lloyd seemed to be … my God, he seemed to be accusing her of having had something to do with this girl.

‘Look,' Mac said. ‘ I think maybe I—'

Lloyd looked at him; they were the same height, and Lloyd's angry blue stare met his. ‘Mr McDonald,' he said. ‘ I don't wish to be rude, but—'

‘No, you don't under—' Mac saw the look in Melissa's eye, and he broke off. She didn't want him to say that she had been with him, that much was obvious.

He watched as Melissa led the way into the editor's office. She was an inch taller than the chief inspector, even wearing flat shoes. That made her an inch taller than him. He sat on the edge of the desk, and watched as the chief inspector made himself comfortable behind the desk, and saw Melissa sit stiffly in front of him. He couldn't see her face.

He wasn't leaving until he could speak to her. He took some coffee from the trolley as it passed, and waited.

‘She was taken to hospital,' said Inspector Menlove.

Judy's eyebrows arched. ‘Don't you mean allegedly taken to hospital?' she asked.

He sighed. ‘Don't jump down my throat,' he said. ‘I'm not Merrill.'

Judy smiled. ‘ Sorry.'

‘Anyway,' said Menlove. ‘In this case, he's right. The victim insists that there was no rape.'

Judy sat down, and refused the cigarette Menlove was offering her. ‘What's the story?' she asked.

‘Seems she shares a flat, and when she got home last night, her flatmate says she was in a state, and said ‘‘some bastard jumped me'' before going straight upstairs. When she didn't come back, her friend went up and found her in the bathroom, out cold, and obviously injured. She called an ambulance, and then called us. With me so far?'

The complication was about to be presented, presumably, thought Judy.

‘She came round in the ambulance, but the doctor wouldn't let anyone talk to her last night. He said she had obviously been attacked in the same way as the other three rape victims. We had someone by her bedside, but when she woke up this morning she said that no one had attacked her.'

Judy's eyebrows rose.

‘Quite. Detective Chief Inspector Merrill thinks she's either too frightened to report it, or she knows who it was and is trying to protect him, despite what he's done.'

Judy smiled. ‘And he's nominated me to find out,' she said.

‘Well, his other theory is that she perhaps doesn't want to talk to a man about it. She got upset this morning, and the hospital said no one could even try to see her until lunch-time today.'

‘How did she get home last night?'

‘Drove herself from wherever she had been. Her flatmate heard the car arriving, and saw her. She thought she looked as though she'd been drinking, which surprised her, so she went to the door. Otherwise she might not have been told what she was told. As it is, she had had her bath before she passed out – she washed away any evidence.' He took a deep drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out. ‘She's lucky she didn't pass out in the bath,' he said. ‘Or while she was driving home. She had inhaled an unusual amount of carbon monoxide, apparently.'