Blood Money (21 page)

‘It’ll keep until then?’ Knox had one eye back on the woman who had changed direction and was walking away from him again.

‘Yeah, it’s okay.’ She sounded calmer. ‘Do you know the Golden Cross?’

Knox remembered seeing the pub a little way down from the nursery, though it wasn’t one he’d ever been into. He said he’d meet her there at eight o’clock. Switching off his phone, he was in time to see the woman exiting the park and disappearing from view. Walking back up the street towards his house, Knox saw a car pulling away from the kerb, his neighbour, Jean, waving to the passengers inside. The driver was an elderly man.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to manage without your dog-walker for a couple of days,’ Jean said, as Knox approached. ‘Michael’s staying with his grandparents tonight.’

‘That’s okay. It’s about time I got some exercise again. Does this mean you’ve got a weekend of freedom?’

She grinned. ‘I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.’

‘How about a drink tonight?’ said Knox impulsively.

‘Oh.’ Now she was embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t dropping hints.’

Knox laughed. ‘You don’t have to. I’d have asked anyway. What do you think?’

‘I think it sounds great, thanks.’

‘I’ll call for you at about eight.’

‘Okay,’ she said, though she was distracted, biting her lower lip as she watched the car proceed painfully slowly, Knox thought, to the end of the road.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked, casting his eyes in the same direction.

‘Yes. It’s just - I worry about Dad driving at his age. I offered to take Michael over but they wouldn’t hear of it.’

‘How far have they got to go?’

‘Only up to Lichfield. I normally put Michael on the train, but there’s nothing running this weekend. “Essential maintenance”, so they say.’

As she spoke, the car reached the end of the close, signalled and disappeared around the corner. She sighed.

‘I’m sure they’ll be fine,’ said Knox. ‘He’s driving slowly, which is better than going too fast.’

She gave an apologetic smile. ‘I’m neurotic about car accidents,’ she said. ‘It’s how Shaun died.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, enjoy your first hours of freedom and I’ll see you later.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

Only as he was unlocking the door did Knox remember his appointment with Christie. Still, it was he who had named the time. If he called her back and made it earlier, say seven, he could fulfil both commitments. Christie shouldn’t take long. If she was having trouble with Bond and wanted to make a complaint, she’d need to come in to the station to make a statement anyway, and if things were more desperate than that he could recommend a couple of women’s refuges, and deliver her there if necessary. He could hardly cancel the date with Jean, given that he’d only just arranged it and the truth was he didn’t want to. He’d even, for a split second, allowed himself to speculate on whether they might end up in bed. Unlikely, he thought on balance, but if they did, he wouldn’t object.

He called Christie straightaway on her mobile but got only her voicemail. He left a message saying he would meet her at the earlier time. It was the best he could do.

 

Knox felt like a dirty old man when he went that evening to meet Christie. All he was missing was the raincoat. It was just that sort of pub too, loud and brash, what passed these days for a typical city pub. He got there ahead of time and bought a coke from a lad who himself barely looked old enough to drink. Seven o’clock came and went, as did half past. Knox heard the same music come round on the sound system, but Christie didn’t show. He found it hard to believe that she hadn’t got his message. Knox really hoped that Bond hadn’t got to her first. Or, maybe it was simpler than that; she’d changed her mind about coming at all. He went for a pee, and out in the corridor tried her mobile again but this time it was switched off altogether. By now it was seven forty-five and he was pushing it to get back in time to pick up Jean. Casting a last look around the bar he walked out.

‘I feel like I’m on my first date,’ Knox admitted, half an hour later as he and Jean were driving out to a very different establishment, the Peacock at Weatheroak, in a leafy corner of Worcestershire. He realised what he’d said. ‘Not that I’m treating this like—’

She laughed easily. ‘You mean you can actually remember your first date?’

‘Oh yes. Tracey McAllister. We were sixteen and I thought I was the dog’s boll—I mean, the bees knees in me Sta-Prest and Ben Sherman shirt, monkey boots all polished up.’

‘Where did you take her?’

‘The end of term school disco. It was dire. Girls dancing round their handbags, lads standing round the edges being cool, and the teachers desperately trying to look like they’re having fun.’

‘Thank God we don’t do that any more. Things have got a bit more sophisticated.’

‘How about you?’

‘Dates? I was a late starter. Shaun was my first boyfriend. He was working for a big construction firm, only as the tea boy I think at that point, but he asked me to a rather grand works function at the Botanical Gardens. The thing I remember most was the dress. For some reason I was determined to go looking like Mary Quant. We’ve got some photos somewhere.’

The evening passed, it seemed to Knox, in no time at all and before long he was pulling back on to his drive.

‘Thanks for that. I had a really good time.’ As she leaned across and kissed his cheek, a hand dropped on to Knox’s thigh. ‘You’ll come in?’

‘I’d like to.’ A thought occurred. ‘I should just go and let Nelson out for a minute though, then I’ll come over.’

‘Okay.’

It was with some relief that Knox found a couple of condoms in the bathroom cabinet. He didn’t know what made him check his mobile. There was a message from Christie, left at eight thirty-nine. She must have picked up his earlier message after it was too late. There was a lot of noise in the background. ‘I do need to talk to you. I’m at the Golden Cross now and I’ll stay here till eleven o’clock. Please meet me here.’

The time by Knox’s watch was just after eleven. Even breaking the speed limits he wouldn’t be able to get to the Golden Cross in less than fifteen minutes, by which time she’d have decided he wasn’t coming and left again. He turned one of the condoms over in his fingers. He could phone her of course, but if she answered and was prepared to wait for him, he’d be committed to going and would have to let Jean down. He listened to the message again. Christie didn’t sound panicked or upset. She seemed calm. In fact from the racket in the background it sounded as if she was having a party. And she couldn’t necessarily expect him to get her message tonight. He’d call her first thing in the morning and arrange to meet her tomorrow.

Jean had left the door on the latch. ‘In here,’ she called as Knox closed it behind him. He went through to the kitchen.

‘Coffee or something stronger?’ she asked.

‘Coffee’s fine.’

‘Go and make yourself comfortable.’

Knox sat on the sofa, and when Jean brought the coffee through she came and sat beside him. Still uncertain about whether it would be welcomed, Knox was considering how and when to make his move. He needn’t have bothered. Quite suddenly she turned and kissed him full on the mouth, her tongue pushing apart his teeth, while at the same time she reached down with her hand, aggressively exploring between his legs. In seconds his zip was open and her hand inside. ‘That will do nicely.’ She smiled mischievously.

 

The next morning, when the post-coital elation had waned, Knox was consumed with guilt. He tried calling Christie’s number several times, but each time was cut off. He tried not to think about what that might mean. Late in the afternoon he watched out of the window as Michael’s grandparents dropped him safely off again.

On Monday morning Knox went into the office as usual. In place of Mariner, DCI Sharp took the usual Monday morning briefing meeting.

‘Have we heard from the boss?’ someone asked.

‘He’s a few more days leave due. After that verdict it wouldn’t surprise me if he stays away a little longer,’ Sharp said. ‘Right, now to work. Over the weekend we’ve had the usual spate of burglaries, TDAs and Saturday night brawls.’

‘Any domestics?’ Knox asked tentatively.

Sharp frowned at her notes. ‘Not that I’m aware. Most of this stuff is pretty routine and we’re still following up on Ocean Blue and the abduction case ...’

Knox tuned himself out of what the DCI was saying. When the briefing was over he’d go across to the nursery to see Christie, apologise for Saturday night and find out what she’d wanted.

‘Tony, I’d like you to handle it.’

At the mention of his voice Knox came round, realising that he’d no idea what Sharp was talking about. ‘Sorry, ma’am?’

‘Wake up, DS Knox. I want you to talk to Mrs Wrigley. She’s convinced that her holiday cottage was used as a bolt-hole by baby Jessica’s kidnappers. She’s coming in to make a statement,’ Sharp glanced up at the wall clock, ‘about now.’

‘It’s a bit of a long shot isn’t it?’ said Knox.

‘Probably,’ agreed Sharp. ‘But she’s driven quite a long way to report it, so could you at least talk to her?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Shit. He’d have to phone the nursery instead. But when he did the line was engaged and he couldn’t get through. Christie’s phone remained switched off.

Betty Wrigley seemed to Knox to be a busybody. The owner of a holiday cottage near Bakewell in Derbyshire, it wasn’t long before he had her taped as the kind of hostess who requires all the intricate details of her guests’ lives, and takes offence when they don’t oblige. When this particular couple who had stayed at her holiday cottage weren’t forthcoming, she was irked. ‘They barely communicated with me and then they left abruptly, abandoning the cottage part way through the week and returning the key, without so much as a bye or leave. Very strange behaviour, I thought.’

‘Perhaps they had a family emergency,’ Knox offered.

‘So why didn’t they just say?’

‘What were their names?’ asked Knox patiently, thinking he probably should at least write some of this down.

‘Mr and Mrs Jones. I mean, that makes you think straightaway, doesn’t it?’

‘It makes me think that maybe their name was Jones,’ said Knox, drily, making a note of it.

Betty Wrigley glared. She wasn’t warming to him, Knox could tell. ‘Mr Jones booked the cottage over the telephone for the week. He sent me a cash deposit and paid the rest in cash when they arrived.’

‘There’s no crime in that. What was it that made you suspicious of them?’

‘Well, it was the secrecy to begin with. They kept themselves to themselves, even the baby. I mean, normally couples are proud of a new baby, and want to show it off, but not these two. In fact, I hadn’t even realised that they had a baby when they arrived, but suddenly after a couple of days there were baby clothes on the washing line. And when I went to tidy up the cottage after they’d gone I found nappies in the bin.’

‘Perhaps there was something wrong with the baby.’

‘Perhaps.’ But she wasn’t convinced. ‘Then on the Wednesday I thought I’d drop by to see how they were getting along and they’d gone, door locked and keys pushed back through the letterbox. They left a note saying that Mrs Jones wasn’t feeling well so they had decided to go home early.’

It seemed to Knox like a perfectly rational explanation. ‘Have you still got the note?’ he asked.

‘Yes, it’s here somewhere. I kept it because I thought you’d want to see it.’ She rummaged through a capacious handbag for several minutes, finally producing a carefully folded piece of paper. Like the note that had been left with baby Jessica it was handwritten in block capitals but, to Knox’s untrained eye, there was no further similarity. Nonetheless he would send it to the lab for comparison.

He showed Betty Wrigley the efit of the kidnapper. ‘Does she look like Mrs Jones?’

‘I didn’t see her, well, at least, only at a distance. As I said, my dealings were with Mr Jones. It could have been her,’ she added hopefully.

But the description of Mr Jones didn’t fit anyone they’d had in the frame, and Betty Wrigley was unable to pick him out in any of the photographs of the male animal rights activists Knox showed her. Most of them were, she said, too young. ‘And Mr Jones had a beard. They were a more mature couple.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t really see Mrs Jones.’

‘Well he was, and I got a sense—’

A sense? What were they now, clairvoyants? ‘Well thank you very much for coming in, Mrs Wrigley.’ Knox stood up, concluding the interview.

She looked crestfallen. ‘Is that all? I could do one of those identity parades for you.’

‘We’ll call you back if we need that,’ said Knox, pretty sure that they wouldn’t.

After that Knox needed a cuppa and went up to the canteen. He joined a lengthy queue behind two uniforms and the word ‘suicide’ snagged his attention.