A Well-deserved Murder (Trevor Joseph Detective series) (15 page)

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‘Like I told Constable Merchant, I went to my uncle’s house. I worked there all morning clearing it. Kacy always wanted me to visit her at two o’clock. But that day she rang me in my uncle’s house and asked me to make it at half past four because George and the kids were away and she’d be busy until then.’

‘You walked up the cul-de-sac to her house?’

‘I always went the back way down the farm track so no one would see me.’

‘You never walked up the street?’ Trevor checked.

‘No, Kacy said she had a neighbour who used to watch everyone who walked up and down the street. Even noted how long delivery drivers took when they dropped off goods. Although given the way Kacy was I’ve no doubt she offered all of them special favours too.’

‘Did you drive up to the farm?’

‘Yes. I park my car on the track and walk down through the woods.’

‘Make and model of your car?’

‘It’s a Vauxhall Astra, a convertible. Emma wanted one and we share it.’

‘So you drove from your uncle’s house to the farm track, which took you how long?’

‘A couple of minutes. I parked the car and walked down the track through the woods.

‘You reached there at half past four?’

‘It was about twenty to five when I got there. I checked my watch. I knew Kacy would be angry. She liked me to be there at whatever time she wanted me. It was one of her foibles. She hated hanging around waiting after she’d made all the preparations.’

‘What preparations?’

‘There was a false panel in the summer-house. She’d fixed handcuffs and ankle straps to the wall behind it, and she had a selection of whips and other things. She was always naked when I arrived. She’d make me strip off, handcuff and buckle me to the wall and begin by whipping me.’

‘She was a dominatrix?’

‘She was a sadist who liked whipping people.’

‘She left marks?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘How did you explain them to your wife?’

‘I told Emma I’d got them gardening in my uncle’s house.’

‘She believed you?’

‘It was like a jungle; every time I went there I tried to cut something down and usually ended up hurting myself.’

‘So you walked down through the woods to Kacy’s garden at around twenty to five. What then?’

‘I climbed over the fence as I usually did and went to the decking.’ He closed his eyes. ‘It was horrible. She was lying there naked with an axe in her head. Flies were swarming all over her …’

‘What did you do when you saw her?’

‘I retched. If I’d eaten anything that day I would have been sick but my stomach was empty.’

‘You didn’t think to call an ambulance?’

‘It was obvious Kacy was dead and past any help that a paramedic could give her.’

‘What about the police?’

‘I didn’t want to have to explain why I was there so I turned and ran back the way I came.’

‘And left her lying there.’

‘And left her lying there,’ John echoed dully. He looked at Trevor. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘You will be formally charged with withholding evidence, making false statements, wasting police time and attempting to pervert the cause of justice.’

‘But you believe me, don’t you?’ John pleaded.

Trevor left his chair. ‘Frankly, Mr Evans, I no longer know what to believe in this case.’

‘After you’ve charged me, I will be free to go?’

‘Procedures have to be followed. Fresh statements taken.’ Trevor turned to Sarah. ‘I will send in officers to relieve you. As soon as they arrive you are to go off duty.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Trevor went into the incident room where a dozen officers were hard at work correlating evidence and witness statements.’

Dan was sitting drinking coffee and chatting to Chris Brooke. He looked up as Trevor entered the room. ‘I hear you’ve found yourself yet another suspect.’

Trevor nodded. ‘One who insists Kacy Howells was dead at twenty to five.’

‘Before or after he killed her?’

‘I wish I knew, Dan,’ Trevor answered.

Peter drove into a deserted car park on the seafront. He pulled up facing the sea, and wound down his window before taking out his cigars.

‘Anyone watching will assume I’m a lonely copper appreciating the view after a day’s hard graft down the station,’ he muttered over his shoulder.

‘Not if they see your lips moving, they won’t,’ Snaggy mumbled from the floor of the back.

‘It’s almost dark and I could be talking to myself. Besides, the only signs of life are the lights twinkling across the bay.’

‘Have you got my money on you?’

‘No.’

‘Then there’s nothing for us to talk about.’

‘There’s plenty for us to talk about if you want money. Who’s the Red Dragon?’

‘Do you think I’d be asking you for a measly grand if I knew that? It would have to be worth at least half a million.’

‘You think so?’

‘I gave you Lofty as the killer of that suburban tart. I want my money.’

‘Where’s the proof that Lofty’s the killer?’

‘Lofty was bragging about it in the Casino when he lost the money. He said she was stark naked and such an obvious tart he didn’t even want to rape her.’

‘How do you know it was the Red Dragon who paid him to do it?’

‘Because he told me.’

‘Just like that.’

‘He was drunk.’

‘Enough to give you the identity of the Red Dragon?’

‘I don’t talk to coppers without money.’ The door opened.

Peter turned in time to see Snaggy running down the cliff path that led to the sea. Tired and hungry, he grabbed the handle on the back door, slammed it shut and drove off. Halfway into town he made a detour and swung into the station. Lofty was known to every beat constable in the town; it shouldn’t take too long to pick him up.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Trevor drove his car into the parking space at the back of his house. It was one o’clock in the morning, eight hours later than he’d hoped to be home. He thought of what he’d missed. Helping Lyn bath Marty and put him to bed. A quiet supper and a film with Lyn. A discussion about the playroom they were planning to build for Marty by extending the utility room into a new conservatory.

He looked at the garage doors and decided against putting the car away. There was little point when he’d be returning to the station at the crack of dawn. He only hoped he could clear his head long enough to get a few hours sleep. But, given the way ideas were buzzing, he doubted he’d succeed. He switched off the ignition and opened the door.

How could he have complained – was it really only a couple of days ago – about the slow start to the case and the wait for forensic evidence? Now, when he felt as though he were drowning in false and conflicting witness statements and a plethora of scientific test results, he would have welcomed a more leisurely pace and a few clear hours to spend with his family.

He climbed out of the car, locked it, opened the garden gate and walked towards the back of the house. A full moon shone down, silvering the white petunias Lyn had planted in tubs, troughs, planters and every available inch of ground between the perennials dotted around the courtyard garden.

He paused for a moment, drinking in the beauty of the quiet moonlit scene and admiring the lines of the simple white art deco garden furniture Lyn had chosen. He found himself comparing the elegant simplicity of this small space with the oversized ramshackle deck, shed and messy garden of the Howells. Some women had the knack of turning a house and its surroundings into a home, some didn’t. He was grateful Lyn belonged to the former group.

He unlocked the back door, walked through the back porch into the kitchen and switched on the light. The black and white units, tiled worktops, walls and floor gleamed pristine, clean and orderly. Even with a new baby to care for Lyn kept the house immaculate. He opened the fridge and reached for a bottle of orange juice.

‘I thought I heard you.’ Lyn joined him, tall, slim and beautiful in her floor-length black and silver kaftan; her mass of black hair tied back, away from her face.

‘What are you still doing up, sweetheart?’ He set down the orange juice, opened his arms and hugged her, lifting her off her feet.

‘I’ve just given Marty a feed. If we’re lucky the little darling will sleep through until six, like he did last night.’

Trevor smiled. ‘He’s saving us a lot of wear and tear in batteries for the alarm clock.’

She returned his kiss. ‘Rough day?’

‘The worst.’ He lifted the bottle of orange juice. ‘Want some?’

‘No thanks, it’ll give Marty colic. But I will have a glass of water. You hungry?’

‘I’ll forage for cheese and biscuits.’

‘There are fresh rolls in the bread bin, but I could cook you something.’

‘I had something sent into the office from the canteen.’

‘A fry-up?’ she guessed.

‘Sandwiches.’

‘What kind?’

‘The healthy sort. You go on in; I’ll bring a tray into the living room.’

‘I was sitting on the balcony.’

‘Better still.’ Trevor loaded a tray and carried it up the stairs, through the master bedroom and out on to the balcony that extended across the full width of the house. It overlooked the bay and, as there was no road between the front of the house and the sea, the view of sands, distant cliffs, and the even more remote lighthouse was uninterrupted.

Lyn was curled on a lounger, her hands wrapped around her knees, her face turned towards the horizon where sea met sky. The night was still and warm and moonlight silvered the sea just as it had done the garden. Although not for long. Clouds were already edging over and blotting out the stars. Trevor breathed in, savouring the sea air before setting the tray on the table.

‘I love it out here.’

‘So much, you’re smug about it,’ Lyn teased.

‘Two things sold me on this house. This balcony and the view. And you look perfect sitting on one and framed by the other.’ He sat beside her.

‘The balcony wouldn’t have been much good without the view. You have an early start tomorrow?’

‘Unfortunately.’

‘So we’d better not stay out here too long.’

‘Want a cheese biscuit?’ He placed a slice of cheese on a cracker and held it out to her.

‘No thank you, darling,’ she shook her head. ‘I’m too tired to eat.’

‘Marty wearing you out?’

‘I had no idea such a small thing was capable of sapping so much energy.’

Trevor finished his orange juice, pushed the plate of cheese and biscuits aside and held out his arms, ‘Come here?’

‘That lounger isn’t big enough for you, me and all the baby weight I’m carrying.’

‘Rubbish and you’re not carrying any baby weight.’

‘Yes, I am. I need to start doing some exercises.’

‘Not now this minute you don’t. Please come here, I need reassurance.’

Lyn left her chair and sat on his lap. ‘Why don’t you ask for a transfer out of serious crimes? You know you hate investigating murders.’

‘I do and this particular one is foul.’

‘Because the victim was a young mother?’

‘What do you know about it?’ he asked.

‘Only what’s in the papers. They’re painting a lurid picture of the victim’s past and double life.’

‘Journalists always seem to be days ahead of poor coppers in the information stakes. But you can never be certain if they print the truth or titillating gossip cooked up to serve their readers. They’ll pay anyone a couple of grand for a story they think will sell newspapers. And when a dubious source serves them up a giant-sized helping of cock and bull they generally swallow it, principally because they have to fill their column inches with something.’

‘Then it’s not true that the victim had hundreds of lovers and worked as a prostitute?’

‘I’m not sure about the working as a prostitute. From what we’ve discovered it looks like she’d have sex with any- and everyone for nothing.’

‘The case is getting to you because she had young children?’ Lyn guessed.

‘Partly,’ he conceded. ‘She was a lousy wife and mother. We’re scarcely a couple of days into the investigation and I’m beginning to wonder if there’s a man in this town she didn’t sleep with. No one who knew her apart from her mother and husband – and he’s gay – has a good word to say about her. Her brother couldn’t wait to tell us about her exploits when she was still a schoolgirl and one of her long-term lovers spoke about her as if she was a drug he was addicted to, and hated using. The only comment her father made, was that she is now in heaven and, in his words, “cloaked in glory”.’

‘That’s an odd thing to say about your murdered daughter.’

‘What I can’t understand is why some husbands put up with the antics of sexually incontinent women. I know in this case the husband is gay but, even so, you think he’d be annoyed by the gossip. And there must have been some. They worked in the same office. You’re the psychiatric nurse; tell me, why do so many married women sleep around?’ Trevor tightened his arms around her waist to stop her slipping downwards on his lap.

‘The simple textbook answer would be lack of self-confidence.’

‘You’re talking about a woman who made low-grade porn films for a massage parlour.’

‘Exactly. She felt she had to prove something.’

‘What?’

‘That she was desirable. That she was more proficient at satisfying men than other women. Or it could be that, unsure of herself, unloved, she felt she had to “buy” her worth by giving people what she thought they wanted.’

‘Unconditional no-strings sex?’

‘From what I read in the paper and you’ve just said, it would appear so.’

‘Her lover said she would do things no other woman – including his wife – would do.’

‘In which case it could be a simple case of sex-addiction.’

‘There is such a thing? It’s recognised by professionals? Not just dreamed up by the tabloids when they want to print stories about the antics of celebrities?’

Lyn laughed. ‘Of course. How do you think the word nymphomaniac came into common use?’

‘This one liked to take risks – have sex in public places.’

‘You need to talk to the police psychologist. If he’s built a profile on your victim, he’d know things about her that aren’t in the paper and you won’t tell me.’

‘I suppose it’s academic now the woman’s dead.’

‘Do you know who killed her?’

‘After today I feel like writing all the suspects’ names on slips of paper tossing them into a pot and asking one of the raw recruits on my team to draw one out.’

‘That bad?’

‘I’ve told you too much. Remember the rules we laid down. No work discussions at home.’

‘That aside, have your discoveries about the victim’s private life worried you about us?’

‘No,’ he answered truthfully. ‘Because whatever she was, you are the exact opposite. Beautiful, inside and out.’ He kissed the back of her neck.

‘It’s odd that she married a gay. Lack of sexual fulfilment could provide a reason for her wayward ways. Do you think he married her for security, children and family life?’

‘And to prove to the world that he isn’t gay.’

‘No one gives a toss about people’s sexuality in this day and age.’

‘Normal reasonable people don’t. Some religious fanatics of many faiths do. It’s a fair bet that at least one of the victim’s children isn’t his.’

‘That wouldn’t matter if all he wanted was a normal family life.’

‘It makes for a weird marriage.’

‘A lavender marriage. Apparently there were a lot of them in Hollywood in the 1930s, 40s and 50s when everyone in the media had to be seen to be squeaky clean.’

He buried his face in her hair. ‘You smell gorgeous.’

She rose to her feet and held out her hand. ‘Forget about the case and other people’s marriages and come to bed. That’s an order.’

‘Bully!’

‘That’s me.’

He smiled at her in the darkness. ‘What would I do without you, Mrs Joseph?’

‘Be a lot richer.’

‘Love you.’

‘Love you back.’ She pulled him through the French doors into the bedroom and closed the blinds.

Peter lifted his feet onto Trevor’s desk, sat back and flicked through the files on Trevor’s computer until he came to
Alan Piper Witness Statements
.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Dan was standing in the doorway watching him.

‘Working.’

‘Does Trevor know you’re in his office?’

‘Yes. He went home over an hour ago.’

‘It’s where you should be. It’s two a.m.’

‘I know.’

‘Perhaps you need reminding that you’ve been transferred to the Drug War Murders case.’

‘I am working on the Drug War Murders, but I keep thinking of something Alan said. I can’t quite put my finger on …’

‘If you have it in mind to ask Alan if he discovered the identity of the Red Dragon when he was researching his piece on the White Baron, forget it.’

‘I doubt he knows it.’

‘After spending an hour with him in prison this afternoon, I doubt he does too.’

Peter stared at the screen. ‘But Alan did say something significant which didn’t register at the time and it’s bugging me.’

Dan sat in the visitor’s chair. ‘I’ve very little time for most journalists. Ninety per cent would sell their mother, children and grandchildren for a story and not necessarily a true one, but I had Alan Piper pegged as different.’

‘Until you spent time with him this afternoon?’ Peter guessed.

‘He refused point-blank to give me the name of the snitch who tipped him the information on the White Baron.’

‘Can you blame him?’ If he had done, no snitch would every trust him again – or give him a lead to a story.’

‘I suppose so,’ Dan allowed grudgingly.

‘You haven’t been visiting prison until now?’

‘No, they kicked me out at five o’clock. But before they did and after I saw Alan, I visited the White Baron. For all the good it did me I may as well have talked to the wall. But he does have some very nice stuff in his cell. I had a chat with the governor about it.’

‘And he promised to take the Baron’s toys away?’

‘He promised to look into it.’

‘Which means the poor druggies, alcoholics, and schizophrenics on the streets have a tougher time than convicted murderers and rapists who can sit inside in their nice cushy cells …’

‘It’s a quarter past two in the morning, Peter. I’m not in the mood for one of your rants. Especially as I’ve just driven around town four times looking for snitches and found none. If nothing happens to break this case in the next twenty-four hours, I’ll have to go upstairs, admit I’ve drawn a blank and offer to hand the case over to another officer.’

‘I talked to Snaggy, tonight.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Apart from “I want my money”, in repeat mode, not much.’

Dan shifted on the chair. ‘Lucky Trevor being home.’

‘He should be in bed by now,’ Peter said enviously.

‘I can tell Daisy’s still away.’

‘After Snaggy ran out on me, I came back here and put out a request to the beat constables to look out for Lofty and Snaggy, and bring them in. I thought they’d have checked out all the casinos by now.’

‘You’ve established that Snaggy is broke and Lofty could be, so it’s unlikely they’ll be gambling.’

‘That sort always manages to lay their hands on money. And will continue to do so while there are little old ladies to mug and people to kill.’ Peter leaned back in his chair.

‘You can’t really think there’s anything in Snaggy’s story that Lofty killed Kacy Howells.’

‘He’s capable of it.’

‘Only if someone paid him well to do it,’ Dan qualified. ‘And can you really see Lofty using an axe?’

‘If he was told to frame Alan.’

‘As Trevor would say, “that’s one hell of a jump”.’

‘I went back through the forensic reports.’

‘Anything?’

‘Kacy’s father’s, Sam Jenkins’s, DNA is in the house. Trevor intends to question him about the bloodstained clothes that were found in the drain tomorrow. If they were his and he dumped them because they were soiled, stripped off and washed under the tap in the garden before going upstairs and borrowing George Howells’ clothes, it might explain why they were under the manhole.’