A Well-deserved Murder (Trevor Joseph Detective series) (12 page)

‘Mrs Jenkins was asleep?’

‘As I told you.’

‘Do you have the minutes for the elders’ meeting?’

‘No. The chairman takes them from the secretary, his wife types them up and we receive a copy at the next meeting.’

‘You have a full list of the elders’ names, and contact details including addresses and telephone numbers?’

Mr Jenkins squirmed uneasily on his chair. ‘Somewhere.’

‘Not to hand?’

‘I don’t need the information.’ He tapped his head. ‘I keep it filed up here.’

‘In that case you can dictate the list to us, Mr Jenkins, so we can validate your statement.’ Trevor continued to watch the elderly man. ‘Could you begin by giving us Matthew Clarke’s address and telephone number. The man who invited you into his house for tea and cheese sandwiches.’

Matthew Clarke was a tiny, wizened man who looked like an animated garden gnome. He spoke quickly, his words tumbling out one after the other, answering Trevor’s questions before he finished asking them. Trevor suspected that Sam Jenkins had telephoned ahead to warn Matthew Clarke that he was about to be interviewed.

‘That’s right, Inspector Joseph, I invited Sam Jenkins in for tea after the meeting. It was late, but he came anyway. I made cheese sandwiches and tea and we sat talking. We’d been painting the chapel. It needed it.’

Trevor noticed that the phrase “it needed it” was the same one Sam Jenkins had used. ‘What time did you leave the chapel, Mr Clarke?’

‘It must have been quite late, around eleven o’clock. We talked a bit – and played a game of chess. Sam’s a good player. I never win against him but he humours me.’

‘And he left when?’

‘After he’d eaten the sandwiches and drunk his tea. I suppose he must have been here for about half an hour.’

‘You’d been together since the meeting started at two o’clock, is that right?’

‘It is, Inspector.’

‘And the meeting finished, when exactly?’

Matthew Clarke looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I’m not sure. I wasn’t looking at my watch but it was a long meeting.’

‘Three … four … five … six o’clock?’ Trevor hazarded, hesitating between each number.

‘Probably around six o’clock.’

‘And after the meeting?’

Matthew Clarke ran his finger around the inside of his collar to loosen it although it was already hanging on his scrawny frame. ‘We painted the chapel.’

‘How many of you?’

‘Pardon?’

‘How many of you stayed behind to paint the church?’ Trevor asked.

‘Six or seven of us. I can’t be sure; we each took a different part of the chapel. One – or maybe two of the elders were working upstairs in the gallery.’

Trevor again referred to the notes he had made the first time he had interviewed Sam Jenkins.
A few of us stayed behind to paint the chapel.

‘Could you give me their names?’

‘I really couldn’t say.’ Matthew Clarke jumped up from his chair. ‘I am very busy I have a lot of …’ he paused, ‘letters to write,’ he said suddenly. ‘My late wife’s business affairs. You know how it is.’

‘What I do know, Mr Clarke is that you’re uncomfortable with and strangely reticent to answer my questions about what you and the other elders did the night Kacy Howells was murdered. Do you have the keys of the chapel?’

‘Yes – I mean no. Normally I would have them but the chairman …’

Trevor looked him in the eye. ‘You live next door to the chapel, Mr Clarke, surely as an elder you hold a key for emergencies.’

‘Yes, but this hardly an emergency. I can’t hand over the keys to every Tom, Dick and Harry who asks for them. The chairman and the elders would be very angry …’

‘You wouldn’t be handing them to just anyone, Mr Clarke. You would be giving them to a police officer who requested them in order to further his enquiries into a murder investigation.’

‘Kacy Howells hasn’t been in the chapel for months … years … I really don’t see how this can help you in any way …’

Trevor held out his hand wordlessly.

‘This is highly irregular,’ Matthew Clarke blustered. ‘The keys are in my safekeeping. I have to get permission from the chairman of the elders…’

‘Then get it.’ Trevor indicated the telephone.

‘He won’t be in at this time of day.’

‘He works?’

‘No. He’s retired.’

‘In which case you won’t know whether he’s in or not until you try.’ Trevor waited for a full minute during which Matthew Clarke remained silent. ‘I could go back to the station, fill out a search warrant, return here and force you to hand over the keys so we could look inside the chapel. And, if you still refused to hand over the keys, batter the door down. While I was getting the warrant I would be fully justified in keeping you in custody.’

‘There is no need for that,’ Matthew chimed peevishly.

‘Shall we go next door and open up the chapel?’

Matthew Clarke left his chair, went to a desk and opened a drawer. He withdrew a large bunch of keys of varying sizes. ‘I have to accompany you?’

‘I have no objection.’ Trevor walked to the front door and Chris followed. As they left the house, Trevor noticed that Matthew was meticulous about locking the door.

‘Burglaries a problem around here?’

‘There are vandals here the same as everywhere in Britain today.’

Trevor looked up and down the neat street of terraced houses. There was no graffiti or any other obvious signs of vandalism. ‘Seems a quiet area to me.’

‘Appearances can be deceptive, Inspector.’ Matthew Clarke’s hand shook as he tried to insert the Yale key into the lock of the church.

‘Allow me.’ Trevor took the key from him and unlocked the door. It held fast.

‘You have to unlock the main lock as well, Inspector, this is the key.’ Matthew pointed to a six-inch key on the ring.

Trevor inserted it in the main lock, turned it and unlocked the door before turning the Yale key again. The door opened. He stepped inside. The outer hall was small, no more than six feet square. He pushed the door and entered the chapel. The pulpit and organ were screened off from the congregation by sliding doors.

‘I don’t smell any paint,’ Trevor commented.

‘You can get ones that don’t smell these days. They cost a little more …’

‘And are totally invisible and useless for the purpose?’ Trevor ran his fingers over the grimy walls. Smudges greyed the paintwork. Alongside the chairs in the congregation the paint had been scuffed down to the bare plaster.

Matthew flushed. ‘We talked about it. We’re going to buy the paint – this week …’

‘Mr Clarke, I have to ask to you to accompany me to the station.’

Matthew Clarke looked as though he were about to burst into tears. ‘Are you arresting me?’

‘Not at the moment, Mr Clarke, but wasting police time and giving false statements are serious offences. If you would like a solicitor to be present while you are questioned, we can send for yours, or find you one. Constable Brooke, please escort Mr Clarke to the car.’

‘I have to lock up.’

‘I will secure the building, Mr Clarke.’

Trevor waited until Chris had left with Matthew Clarke before telephoning the station and asking the duty constable to arrange an escort to bring Sam Jenkins in for questioning.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

‘We’ve put Mr Jenkins and Mr Clarke in separate interview rooms, sir.’ Chris Brooke went to the coffee station in the incident room and poured himself a cup.

‘Did they see one another?’ Trevor asked.

Chris smiled. ‘As ordered.’

‘When you’ve finished your break, check on the search warrants. As soon as they come through organise searches of the Jenkinses’ house and Matthew Clarke’s. After they’re completed we’ll track down and interview their fellow chapel elders.’

‘Like a coffee, sir?’ Chris asked.

‘Please.’

‘You take it black, no sugar?’

‘I do.’

Chris poured Trevor a cup and carried it over to the computer where Trevor was inputting and cross-referencing Matthew Clarke’s and Sam Jenkins’s witness statements.

‘How did you know Sam Jenkins was lying?’ Chris pulled up a chair.

‘I didn’t. But there was something odd about the way he related his movements on the day his daughter was killed. And, besides his peculiar manner, a two hour meeting followed by a six hour painting session didn’t ring true to me. Not for six or seven men. Most people who decide to tackle a job like repainting a chapel would start first thing in the morning. Not sit around discussing chapel matters for two hours, then start painting. A late start would cut into their evening, and most wives of Sam Jenkins’s generation want their husbands home in the evening to share a meal.’

‘I didn’t think of that.’

‘And there’s the timing. How long does it take to splash on a coat of emulsion?’

‘Depending on the size of the room, a couple of hours.’

‘You saw the chapel and we’re talking six or seven men. Strange neither Matthew Clarke nor Sam Jenkins could give us the exact number,’ Trevor mused.

‘Glossing would take longer.’

‘It would. But most chapels have stained and varnished pulpits, benches and skirting-boards. As this one did, when we finally persuaded Matthew Clarke to open it up.’

‘You really had nothing more to go on than the timing and “there was something odd” about Sam Jenkins’s story?’

Trevor pressed “print” on the list of discrepancies he’d compiled and pushed his chair back from the computer desk. ‘It’s called instinct. When I first joined the force I was told to distrust it, but the longer I serve and the older I get, the more I find myself relying on it.’

‘What do you expect to find in the searches?’ Chris asked.

‘What we expect to find in every search, Constable.’ Dan walked into the room. ‘We don’t know until we see it, and when we see it, we’ll know it.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Can I have a word in my office, Trevor?’

‘I’ll be with you in a minute. Do me a favour, Chris, copy this print-out into evidence and distribute them in the files. Then compile a list of the names and addresses of the other chapel elders.’

Trevor followed Dan into his office. Peter was sitting in front of Dan’s desk poring over the PM report on Kacy Howells. He looked up when Trevor walked in.

‘Heard you’ve brought in Kacy’s father and one of the chapel elders for questioning.’

‘You can’t keep anything quiet around here,’ Trevor grumbled.

‘Does that mean Alan’s off the hook?’

‘It means that chapel elders who should know better are telling porkies about where they were on the afternoon of the murder. Why are you looking at Kacy Howells’ PM report? You’re off the case.’

‘He is and he isn’t.’ Dan squeezed past Trevor who’d perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Snaggy told Peter last night that the Red Dragon ordered the killing of a suburban housewife and paid Lofty to do it.’

‘Kacy Howells?’ Trevor looked at Dan.

‘She’s the only murdered suburban housewife on our patch this year.’

‘And you believe Snaggy?’

‘You’re the one who always insists on following every lead, no matter how bizarre.’ Peter tossed the report onto Dan’s desk. ‘For what it’s worth I think Snaggy’s theory is plausible.’

‘More plausible than nailing Alan Piper as her murderer?’ Trevor suggested.

‘I don’t buy Alan as the killer and if you think that’s down to sheer bloody prejudice because he’s my cousin and unlike most of my relatives, likeable, you’d be absolutely right,’ Peter conceded.

‘She was axed to death and inexpertly at that. Hardly the method of a professional. They generally use knives or guns,’ Trevor picked up the report Peter had discarded.

‘Suppose someone wanted to frame Alan for Kacy Howells’ murder?’

‘What possible motive could anyone have for doing that?’ Trevor asked logically.

‘I can think of half a dozen reasons. One, that wet wimp apology of a gay husband of hers discovered she was unfaithful and paid someone to get rid of her. And the hired killer fitted up a neighbour to take the rap for the murder to put us off the scent? Snaggy said Lofty fingered someone else using rubbish from a bin. The tissue and chewing gum could well have been in Alan’s bin bags.’

‘And Alan’s coat?’ Trevor asked.

‘If Alan left it in a pub or his unlocked car it could have been taken any time.’

‘It’s a story worthy of Hollywood, but it wouldn’t explain the Red Dragon’s involvement. There’s no evidence to connect Kacy Howells to drug dealing. If she was a user it would have been spotted at the PM.’

‘There’s her father,’ Peter conveniently ignored Trevor’s mention of drugs.

‘Why would he ask a drug dealer to kill his daughter?’

‘Because he’s a Bible-thumper and holds extreme views. I was there when he started spouting about her “being cloaked in glory” remember. He could have discovered her sexual antics and arranged for the death of her earthly body because it would purge her sins …’

‘That’s one hell of a jump, Peter,’ Trevor interrupted. ‘And, it presupposes that he knew about her sexual activities and was friendly with the Red Dragon. An entity we’re all trying to pin down.’

‘Her sexual activities are there in black and white and cartoon colours.’ Peter pulled the porn magazine from his pocket.

‘You said you could think of half a dozen motives,’ Trevor reminded.

‘Even allowing for my usual exaggeration, you’ll make me go through them, won’t you?’ Peter made a face. ‘The back of the Howells’ house is secluded. It could be used to drop drugs. What if Kacy Howells saw something she shouldn’t have?’

‘A drug drop? A dealer in suburbia.’ Even as Trevor said it, he saw the possibilities. What better cover than a quiet suburban street. Even allowing for the monitoring of the Mrs Walshes of this world, there would be any number of tradesmen and delivery drivers visiting the cul-de-sac on a regular basis – particularly in this age of internet shopping. Who was to say exactly what they were delivering? Catalogue goods or drugs? And some firms employed private drivers who used their own vehicles.’

‘It’s feasible, isn’t it?’ Peter said.

‘If Kacy saw something she shouldn’t have, the chances are it was in the woodland at the back of her house and the farmer has a prime view,’ Trevor pointed out.

‘He’s not there all the time.’

‘You’re seriously suggesting that a professional walked into Kacy Howells’ garden and killed her rather messily with an axe?’

‘A professional who had been seen dealing by her.’

‘The axe suggests spur of the moment murder,’ Trevor declared. ‘Snaggy told you it was funded by the Red Dragon, which would mean a certain amount of planning.’

‘Planning that included the framing of her next door neighbour,’ Peter argued. ‘The axe could have been planted in front of Alan’s car by the killer. He told me about the axe being in front of his car before Kacy Howells was murdered, remember. And as he had to move it, his fingerprints would be all over it.’

Trevor thought for a moment, much as he’d like to investigate Snaggy’s story he didn’t have the manpower. ‘My team are working flat out at the moment.’

‘On Sam Jenkins’s alibi?’ Dan asked.

‘You are keeping up with developments. Sam Jenkins and Matthew Clarke have concocted a story to hide something. I’m not sure what. Sarah is supervising a team in the office both Howells work in and interviewing the Howells’ friends and colleagues.’

‘I wasn’t aware they had any – friends that is.’ Peter left his chair before Trevor could press him about any other theories he might have.

‘Can we talk about this tonight? Dinner my place?’ Trevor asked.

‘As long as it’s a take-away and Peter buys,’ Dan said, ‘he let me pick up the tab for last night.’

‘I’ll phone Lyn and tell her to warm the plates. But now I have people to interview.’

‘Chapel elders,’ Peter mocked.

‘I’m starting with the two we have in custody. Bearing in mind that they’ve already lied about painting the chapel, it’ll be interesting to see how they try to explain their reasons for lying before we tackle the others. I’d also like to go through Sarah’s interviews when she gets back. And, if there’s time before the sun sets, I intend to take a look at that path that runs from the farm behind the Howells’ house down to their garden.’

‘Busy man. Good luck.’ Peter reached for his coat.

‘You going out?’

‘Snitches to see and narks to shake down.’

‘You paid Snaggy for his tip-off?’ Trevor asked.

‘No, and until I’m one hundred per cent certain he’s right he won’t get a penny from me.’

‘How will you know if he’s right?’ Trevor asked.

‘Tell you if I find out one way or the other. Good luck with your elders.’ Peter left and Trevor returned to the interview room.

‘Have Sam Jenkins and Matthew Clarke been given tea?’ he asked Chris.

‘Yes, sir,’ one of the duty constables answered. ‘Do you think either of them had anything to do with Kacy Howells’ murder, sir?’

‘I don’t know,’ Trevor poured a coffee, not because he wanted it but because the cup would give him something to do with his hands in the interview room.

‘Which one do you want to start with?’ Chris asked.

‘Matthew Clarke. That will give Sam Jenkins time to sweat a little longer.’

Sarah Merchant sat in the tiny private office she had borrowed from the executive officer of the section Kacy and George Howells had worked in. She opened her briefcase, set a notepad in front of her, took out a pen and read the notes Trevor had made of his interview with Kacy Howells’ brother, Mark.

Last time I bumped into John, he told me he had been trying to kick Kacy out for years. He finally resorted to paying her thousands to get her out of his house, although she never gave him a penny towards the mortgage and every month he had to fight to get her to pay anything towards the bills. He told me it was worth every penny to be rid of her because he couldn’t stand her having sex with other blokes in their garden in full view of him and their neighbours. It was her speciality at barbecues. A couple of vodkas and she was any- and everybody’s.

An arrestingly good-looking young man knocked the open door and entered the cubicle at Sarah’s “come in”.

He held out his hand. ‘John Evans. You wanted to see me?’

‘Yes. Thank you for coming in, Mr Evans. I’m DC Sarah Merchant, one of the team investigating Kacy Howells’ murder. Please sit down.’ She indicated the chair in front of the desk. She looked into John Evans’s eyes and decided the only attraction plain, mousy Kacy Howells could have possibly held for him was kinky sex. Then she remembered she was a professional – and that meant impartial with no preconceived ideas.

‘The entire office is shocked by Kacy’s murder. It’s a dreadful business.’ John Evans shook his head.

‘It is. Which is why we are interviewing all her friends and colleagues. You lived with her?’

‘For eighteen years.’

Sarah closed the file that contained her notes. ‘Why did you split up?’

‘It’s no secret I fell in love with someone else.’

‘Someone who worked in the same office as you and Kacy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you remain on good terms with Kacy?’

‘I tried but she was having none of it. She became extremely bitter. Tried to sue me for half the value of the house we were living in. Fortunately it was in my name. I’d bought it with money I’d inherited from my grandparents and could prove it.’

‘So Kacy moved out?’

‘Not before I served a legal eviction notice on her. Even then, she refused to go until I paid her several thousand pounds she had no claim to and I could ill afford.’

‘But you still paid her?’

‘I had virtually moved into Emma’s rented flat – she was my girlfriend now she’s my wife – to get away from Kacy. Which had left Kacy in my house. I was afraid she’d try to claim squatter’s rights. She had no sense of property.’

‘Property?’ Sarah queried.

‘To say she was light-fingered was putting it mildly. I’ve always tried to get on with my neighbours but Kacy tore down the boundary fences between us and tried to claim part of their gardens. She also used to pick up any tools they left lying around and put them in our garage. She was just the same in the office. Ask anyone what she was like and they’ll tell you the same thing. Chocolate bars, sandwiches, pens, her motto seemed to be, “see it, like it, take it”.’

‘It bothered you.’

‘When I first started going out with her, I made excuses for her. I thought I had to be mistaken. She couldn’t really be constantly thieving. Then, after she moved in with me and I saw what she was really like, the excuses became a bit thin.’

‘It took eighteen years for that to happen?’

‘The last three years we were together were bloody. Look, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead but it wasn’t just that. I’m ashamed to say that she had a sort of hold on me.’ He averted his eyes.

Sarah took the pornographic magazine from the file and handed it to him. ‘Have you seen this?’

‘Everyone in the office has. A parcel of them arrived the day it was published.’

‘Were you surprised to see Kacy in it?’

‘Yes and no. When I was with her she was wild but she didn’t publicly advertise the fact she slept around. She kept her activities within a tight circle.’

‘She was unfaithful when you were together?’

John Evans shifted uneasily on his seat. ‘She was into open relationships, swinging – wife-swapping – whatever you want to call it, and I went along with it, but after a few years I tired of it. She didn’t.’