A Deadly Thaw (18 page)

Sadler was waiting for them when they returned. He was flicking through a file Connie had left on her desk. She had to hide the surge of irritation she felt when she saw him leaning over her work.

It was just as well they hadn’t gone for the drink that Palmer had suggested on the way back. He’d seemed subdued by Rebecca Hardy’s testimony. Well, that was hardly a surprise. No matter how much training you had in dealing with victims of sexual violence, there was always the element of subjectivity when it came to listening to individual testimonies. And Rebecca Hardy’s story didn’t exactly show men in a good light.

‘What have you two been up to?’

Connie looked to Palmer. ‘We’ve been interviewing a potential victim of Philip Staley.’

‘You didn’t think about telling me where you were going?’

Connie looked at Palmer again. Two red patches had appeared in his cheeks. ‘We were about to come and update you. We didn’t know what we had until we’d interviewed the witness.’

Sadler relaxed a fraction. ‘You have two minutes to update me. Then we’re going straight to Superintendent Llewellyn to repeat that update.’

Connie frowned. Sadler seemed riled. ‘Is everything okay?’

Sadler’s expression didn’t change. ‘We’ll soon find out.’

They sat in Llewellyn’s office like schoolchildren seeing the headmaster. It was only the second time that Connie had been inside the room. The first had been an earlier case, the previous year. A child who’d gone missing in the seventies. During that time she had seen Llewellyn’s emotions exposed in a way she hadn’t thought possible. This time he looked serious.

He started without preamble. ‘I’ve called the three of you here because I want to talk to you about what Rebecca Hardy told you. Yes, I know who you’ve been to see. When you requested the full file off the computer system, DS Palmer, it raised a flag that was referred to me.’

There hadn’t been much time to update Sadler on the meeting with Rebecca, and he kept his face deadpan. Connie wondered what he was thinking.

‘I thought I’d call you in to give you a bit of background information on the Rebecca Hardy case. This is mainly for you,’ he nodded at Connie and Palmer. ‘Only you, Sadler, were a copper in 1998, so I’m not principally talking to you. But you two: don’t underestimate the changes that have taken place since then.’

Connie frowned. What the hell was this all about? There had been various initiatives to improve the treatment of women who reported rapes. Part of it was the result of keeping up with the times, some of it was in response to some truly awful instances of victims being treated badly following their allegations. She knew that, and so would Palmer. She glanced at him. His face was still red.

‘So the thing is,’ continued Llewellyn, ‘this case has got “sensitive” written all over it. You’re being shielded from all the flak I’m getting about the misidentification of Andrew Fisher. That’s deliberate. I want you concentrating on the current investigation, not on any mistakes that may have been made in the past.’

‘Which is what we are doing.’ Sadler’s voice was neutral, but, in contrast, his complexion had paled to marble.

‘But now the fact that the first victim, if that’s what you’ve concluded,’ continued Llewellyn, ‘the
original
victim, also had a rape charge made against him that was subsequently dropped, adds to the mire in which we find ourselves. We can call it’, he grimaced, ‘the fourth cock-up.’

Connie risked a glance at Sadler. His eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

‘We’re certain it was Philip Staley?’ asked Llewellyn.

Palmer was on firm ground, and it was he who spoke. ‘From Bill’s, I mean Dr Shields’, original report, it seems that the body found in Lena Gray’s bed had a scar on his forearm about the size of a ten-pence piece. The uniform shape suggested a medical excision rather than an accident. Philip Staley had a suspicious mole removed when he was thirty. Medical records stated that Staley was a habitual user of tanning machines. The medical notes about the mole removal match the location of the excision as far as we’re able to ascertain. I mean, given that we have no body.’

Llewellyn looked to Sadler, who nodded. ‘Philip Staley was last heard of in August 2004, when he telephoned his mother asking for a loan of five hundred pounds to enable him to buy a ticket to Australia as he wanted to emigrate there. It appears that his mother was more annoyed than worried about the fact that he never called from his destination. She hasn’t heard from him since.’

‘So we’re pretty sure he’s our man, are we? I mean, even the excision isn’t conclusive.’

‘In the absence of the original body, there’s no way we’re going to be one hundred per cent sure,’ said Sadler. ‘We’re going to have to talk in terms of probables. Given the physical evidence, plus the timing of his disappearance, I think we’ve got a good basis to suspect that he’s our man.’

‘We’ve looked into his bank accounts.’ Palmer leant forward in his chair, keen to impress. ‘There have been no deposits or withdrawals since September 2004. The last was from a cash machine, in Bampton, on the fourth of September of that year. It puts him in Bampton around the time that the man was found in Lena Gray’s bed.’

‘Philip Staley.’ Llewellyn drummed his pen on his desk. ‘What’s his background? Was he originally from Bampton?’

‘He grew up in Macclesfield. Left school at sixteen. Then had a series of jobs, mainly the office type. He was clearly clever but also couldn’t settle at anything. His last known job was working as a clerk in a bank.’

‘What about outside work? Hobbies and so forth,’ asked Llewellyn.

‘He enjoyed playing sport,’ continued Connie. ‘I called his mother for more details about his life. She naturally wanted to skirt over his employment history but she told me he liked sports and rugby in particular.’

Sadler looked at her. ‘You didn’t mention that before. I told you Andrew Fisher was a rugby player. Did Staley play for a team?’

‘Yes.’ Palmer didn’t need to look through his notes. ‘One of the local ones.’

‘He and Andrew Fisher could easily have known each other through rugby games. The local clubs are always playing each other. We need to check it out. Palmer, can you do that?’

Thank God for that
, thought Connie. The idea of interviewing a bunch of rugger buggers didn’t appeal at all. Mind you, Palmer wasn’t looking best pleased either. That was a point in his favour.

‘That’s it then,’ said Llewellyn, shutting a notebook on his desk. ‘Keep me updated, will you? I don’t like the sound of this Philip Staley. Nasty business, a rape allegation, whatever eventually happened to the man.’

Connie looked at the other members of the team in surprise. Was that it? What was this all about? Even Sadler was looking surprised. A twenty-minute meeting with the Superintendent just to chat about the personality of Philip Staley? That wasn’t normal.

Sadler stood up without catching anyone’s eye. ‘We’ll keep you fully informed, sir. Of course.’

Llewellyn nodded and turned to his computer screen. They were dismissed.

They walked down the corridor towards the main CID offices. Still not looking at them, Sadler said, ‘Go in and grab your coats. I’m taking you for a drink. The first one’s on me.’

‘You’re a long way from Whitby.’ After the initial fright, Kat’s heartbeat had settled into a more regular rhythm.

The man didn’t move but lifted his hands in a gesture of resignation. She had last seen him outside his own home next to Lena’s bolt-hole in that windy seaside town. There, his clipped beard and bare feet had given him a hippyish look. Now, in his thick jacket and hiking boots, he looked more threatening but his manner seemed more anxious to appease than intimidate.

‘I’m looking for Lena.’

Kat snorted. ‘We’re all looking for Lena. Join the club. How did you get into my house?’

He looked confused. ‘Your house? I thought it was Lena’s. She left a key with me once. Years ago. She said she lived by herself and wanted someone else to have a key. When she got married, I offered to give it back to her, but she told me to keep it.’

‘The house belongs to both of us. We were left it between us when my mother died. Lena’s never wanted to move and I stayed here while she was in prison.’

The man winced.

‘You know about her conviction, then. You said in Whitby that she just disappeared. Stopped coming. You knew she’d gone to jail.’

The man looked unhappy. ‘Lena and I got to know each other over the years. She first came to the town as a teenager, although I didn’t know her then. When she was working, she started renting the cottage next to me. She was a pale wraith of a thing. I used to just knock to see if she was okay. This was before she was married.’

‘Did you have a relationship with her . . . um . . . do you have a name?’

‘I’m Daniel. Daniel Frears. And no. I didn’t have a relationship with Lena.’ Something in his voice struck a sour note.

‘You sure?’

He shook his head. ‘Not for lack of trying on my part, I have to say. In the early days, I mean. She just wasn’t bothered and I didn’t push it. I got used to us being friends.’

‘And after she got married?’

‘Nothing really changed. She still came to Whitby just as regularly and I’d still see her. We’d have a glass of wine at mine.’

‘What did she do? In Whitby, I mean?’

It was the man’s turn to look at her in astonishment. ‘She painted, of course.’

Kat snorted. ‘Not many flowers in Whitby.’

He looked confused. ‘Flowers?’

‘The flowers that she painted. Not many of them in Whitby.’

‘But she didn’t paint flowers. Not the canvases I saw.’

Kat stared at him. ‘That’s all she bloody does paint. Come upstairs and have a look if you don’t believe me.’

She led him up to Lena’s studio and pulled out some of the large canvases leaning face to the wall. Against the white background were the usual blue daubs, frozen and stark.

Kat watched him examine them.

‘These are completely different to what I saw her paint in Whitby. She painted figures. I mean people. Men and women embracing. She painted passion. And pain. She was better at it there. These are okay but not as good as the Whitby ones.’

Kat’s head was reeling. Lena had always painted flowers. It was her thing. The thought that her sister had another side was bewildering. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. There aren’t many of them. She was a really slow painter but what she produced was good. It all stopped when she went to prison, of course.’

Kat scrabbled to clear her mind. ‘So what are you doing here?’

‘I told you. I’m looking for Lena. I haven’t heard from her, and I’m worried.’

‘You know she’s missing. I told you when I saw you. She’s disappeared.’

‘I know. I thought she’d come to Whitby. It’s always been her escape. Somewhere to go when she felt down. I waited, but she never came.’

‘When did you last see her?’

He put one of the canvases back down. ‘I can’t answer that. I’m sorry, Kat, but some things can’t be told.’

Wasn’t that what Lena had said to her? When the police had come to question her about finding the real Andrew Fisher?
Not everything can be told.

Kat could feel the fury rising again. ‘There’s one question you can answer me. According to a very nice police detective working on this case, Andrew Fisher was seen in Whitby about four years ago. Given that you clearly know more about my family than I do, I’d like you to tell me what he was doing there.’

Sadler had chosen the White Swan because it was quiet. It played no music and had no quiz nights. It was given over to the consumption of drink, and the preference for real ales over bottled beer meant that the clientele was largely past the age of forty.

Each of the three gathered around the circular table was, for different reasons, slightly out of place in the pub. Palmer had clearly never been there before. In Sadler’s opinion, he was more likely to frequent one of the bars on Bampton High Street. His well-cut clothes looked too smart for the basic bar. Connie, on the other hand, had made herself comfortable. She was sitting with her short thin legs stretched out in front of her and her arms behind her head. Her confidence and mischievous look had attracted a few glances from some of the men sitting at the bar, who clearly weren’t used to women taking such enjoyment in the masculine space. Sadler was known to the landlord, who gave him a brief nod when he entered, but he never felt comfortable in pubs and could never think what to drink. He had settled for a glass of red wine. Palmer and Connie were drinking beer.

‘What was that all about?’ demanded Connie, as usual skipping the preamble.

Sadler tasted the wine and frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know.’ And he didn’t. He was as perplexed as the others as to why Llewellyn had called them into the office. ‘I could have briefed him myself on our progress regarding Philip Staley. Once you’d updated me, of course.’

Palmer looked like he might sulk, but curiosity got the better of him. ‘It was strange though. He seemed to be pumping us for information. What was he talking about when he talked about the “fourth cock-up”?’

‘It’s not the term I would have used. There have been four mistakes, or, if not mistakes, then problems in this case. Llewellyn, in his usual fashion, has called them “cock-ups”.’

‘Let me guess,’ said Connie. ‘The misidentification of Philip Staley in the original investigation; the killing of the real Andrew Fisher; the disappearance of Lena Gray; and, finally, the dropping of rape allegations against Staley.’ She beamed at them both, her hands still behind her head. ‘A quartet of cock-ups.’

Sadler was amused but made an effort not to show it. He could feel his mood lifting. ‘Don’t remind me. I was around for all four of those mistakes.’

Connie dropped her hands and leant forward. ‘They’re not your fault, and two of them I wouldn’t even describe as mistakes. Okay. This misidentification of Philip Staley. That is a massive fu—’ Connie caught Sadler’s eye and changed her mind, ‘mistake. However, the killing of Andrew Fisher? That’s murder and not our error. Letting Lena Gray give us the slip? Well, that’s a mistake, but as much mine as yours. I interviewed her. I should have spotted she was giving us the runaround.’

‘And as for the rape accusation,’ Palmer said, after taking a sip of his pint. ‘Is that a blunder? If the victim withdraws her accusation, even now, there’s not much we can do.’

‘But measures are in place now to ensure that it is less likely to occur. And quite right.’ Connie drained the rest of her beer.

The group fell silent, and Sadler could feel two pairs of eyes on him. Connie, as usual, articulated his thoughts. ‘There’s something fishy going on.’

Sadler picked up his wine glass and took a large gulp of the musty liquid. ‘Yes. It would appear so.’