Cold Sacrifice (16 page)

‘Here, where do you think you’re going?’

Candy stepped forward to stand in the doorway, arms folded, blocking his way.

‘I suppose you think you can go poking around, seeing as she’s not here to tell you to get lost. But you got no right and when Della finds out, she’ll be on to your lot like a shot and then you’ll be for it and serve you right.’

‘It won’t take long to get a search warrant,’ Ian fibbed; Della wasn’t even a suspect, and no one had reported her missing. ‘Then we can take the place apart, room by room.’

‘Well, go on then, what are you waiting for? Piss off and get your warrant. But you’re not going in Della’s room without her knowing about it, not while I’m here. I know your type. Always throwing your weight around. You think you’re so bloody high and mighty, but you’re the one who’s going to be in the shit, if I know anything, if you try and force your way in there while she’s out. A person’s entitled to some privacy. You got no right.’

Ian was used to encountering aggressive resistance, usually when people were frightened. Women like Candy had plenty of reasons to fear the police. It didn’t usually amount to much. No doubt Della had some cannabis stashed in her room, or cocaine, hardly worth the bother. He wasn’t there on a drugs bust. Looking at Candy’s knowing expression, he decided to proceed carefully and postpone his search until he could come back accompanied. He told Candy he would return in the morning, and she stood watching him leave.

He couldn’t help wondering if he had made a mistake in deciding not to search Della’s room while he had the chance. If she turned up there during the night, Candy was bound to tell her about his visit. If Henry
had
paid her to lie, she would move the cash out of her room before Ian came back. But it was a flimsy sort of evidence at best, because Della might have a stash of cash that could be traced back to Henry anyway, received for services that had nothing to do with his alibi. Finding a heap of cash might help them put pressure on her to destroy Henry’s alibi for the night his wife was murdered, but it was a long shot. The reality was, they had nothing to suggest Henry was responsible for his wife’s death, and no other suspect under investigation.

* * * * *

Candy wished her flatmate would come home. She tried calling her phone, but there was no answer. Slipping into Della’s room, she yanked up the mattress and felt around beneath it. For a moment she was afraid Della had thought better of revealing her secret, and had moved the money from its original hiding place. Then her fingers closed on an envelope stuffed with cash. Quickly she replaced the sheets. Clutching Della’s share of the money, she sat down on the edge of the bed. Her hands trembled as she called her flatmate once more. There was still no reply. Candy couldn’t wait much longer before acting. The sergeant had threatened to return with a search warrant. He might be back at any moment. Somehow she had to hide the money where the police couldn’t find it. Della would understand that she had acted only to keep it safe. There was no way Candy was going to let the sergeant pocket it. And once this crisis was over, there would be a lot more cash where this came from. Even while she was thinking where to hide the money, she was making plans to increase it.

After trying Della’s phone one last time, she stood up and smoothed the covers on the bed. Returning to her own room, she shoved two hundred quid of her own into the envelope with the rest. Without stopping to count it all, she hurried to the kitchen where Della kept plastic freezer bags for her drugs. Just to be sure, she sealed the envelope in three plastic bags, one inside the other. Stuffing the package down her bra, she scurried downstairs. At the bottom, she switched off the light in the hall before stealing out of the flats. With no light behind it, an observer might not notice the front door open and close. Crouching down, she crept along the narrow path and around the side of the block. Pressed against the wall, she looked back at the street. A dark car was parked on yellow lines on the other side of the road. She froze as a figure sitting inside it turned his head and looked towards the flats. He looked away. She guessed the police were waiting for Della. Or it could be the killer coming for his money.

Still crouching, she edged her way along the side of the building, thankful the nearest street light wasn’t working. Dropping to her knees she used a knife she had brought from the kitchen to scrape frantically at a scrubby strip of earth, directly beneath a cracked brick. The place would be easy for her to find again. When she had dug deep enough, she buried the package under the surface and patted the soil down. Even the police searching every inch of the property wouldn’t suspect it was there. Brushing her hands, she hurried back into the flat where she closed the door and felt her way up the stairs in the dark. Leaving her shoes on the mat, she ran into the kitchen where she washed the knife thoroughly and scrubbed her hands so there was no trace of mud left anywhere. The money was safe, and so was she. As soon as Della showed up, they would visit her benefactor together. Only this time they would demand a lot more, and he would have to pay up.

A
S HE DROVE AWAY
from Margate, Ian thought about Polly. She was an attractive young woman. If he had been free he would doubtless have flirted with her. Maybe he would have been tempted to consider asking her out. It was a hypothetical whimsy, like thinking about a woman he had seen on television, unreal and unattainable. Except that Polly wasn’t an image on a screen. She often sat beside him in his car, chatted in the canteen with him, or at the pub, joking, laughing and interacting. On holiday he had clocked plenty of topless women without a trace of guilt. But this was different. He knew Polly. He liked her. It was uncomfortable to realise that, much as he loved his wife, he wasn’t sure if he actually liked her. Polly wasn’t the only woman he considered a friend, outside his marriage. He was very fond of his previous inspector, Geraldine. It seemed he had no problem liking other women, only his wife.

Back at the station, he checked in with Rob. Eager to hear what Ian had found at Della’s flat, the detective inspector was dashed by the answer to his enquiry.

‘Nothing at all, only a bit of dope –’

Rob looked up.

‘Large enough to threaten charges?’

‘Maybe enough to give her a scare. Although my guess is that it would take more than that to get her to talk. The threat of being an accessory to murder might work, if we could find her.’

Rob nodded. ‘No pile of notes with Henry Martin’s prints all over it, then.’

Ian shook his head. Although he hadn’t expected to find anything suggesting Della had been paid a large sum of money by Henry, he was disappointed all the same. They were getting nowhere.

‘And still no sign of her?’

‘I reckon she’s gone into hiding, to avoid being questioned again.’

Rob looked thoughtful. ‘Are you saying you think she was lying about being with Henry on the night of the murder?’

Ian shrugged. It was impossible to say one way or the other. In the meantime, they were discussing the same questions over and over again, going nowhere.

On his way out, Ian glanced into the canteen. He wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. In any case, if a colleague had happened to suggest going to the pub for a quick drink, he would have refused. It was gone seven thirty on a Saturday evening. All he wanted to do was get home to his wife. The question of the pub didn’t arise because the canteen was empty, apart from a table of older officers engrossed in a discussion. He arrived home before eight ready for a quiet evening at home with Bev. She was in the bedroom when he trotted upstairs to change. He was momentarily surprised to see she was all dressed up.

‘You look great,’ he said, and hesitated.

Catching sight of his expression, she pouted. ‘You haven’t forgotten?’

‘No,’ he lied.

Desperately he tried to remember what they had planned for that evening as she pestered him to get ready.

‘They’ll be here soon.’

Forcing a smile, Ian went to kiss her.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll be ready.’

As ready as he ever would be to spend an evening with Bev’s family.

With her cold manner and supercilious remarks, Ian’s mother-in-law made it obvious she didn’t think he was good enough for her daughter, while Bev’s sister would spend the evening bragging about her latest extravagance: a brand new car, or a luxury cruise. Ian was on a decent salary but his brother-in-law was in a different league. Ian still didn’t understand exactly what he did; something in sales.

‘They must be in debt up to their eyeballs,’ he once said to Bev. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me to learn they’ve remortgaged their house.’

‘He just earns more than you,’ she replied tartly. ‘There’s no need to be spiteful.’

Bev had prepared an elaborate three-course dinner, with an expensive wine. Reluctantly, Ian declined a second glass as they sat down at the table. He couldn’t afford to be over the limit. Once he was on a case, it was impossible to predict when he might be summoned.

‘Come on, Ian,’ his brother-in-law urged him. ‘Don’t be a stuffed shirt. You’re not on duty now. Even a policeman is entitled to a night off.’

‘He’s always on duty,’ Bev muttered.

Ian’s mother-in-law glowered at him, daring him to disagree.

With Bev’s sister living in Canterbury, only eight miles from Herne Bay, it was inevitable she wanted to discuss the recent murder. As politely as he could, Ian refused to be drawn.

‘It’s hardly surprising, when you look at how the area has deteriorated,’ Bev’s sister said, grumbling about the impossibility of persuading the local council to deal with loiterers near the coast, while her husband complained about unsuitable neighbours arriving in the neighbourhood.

‘Hippies and gipsies right on our doorstep,’ he complained. ‘You people ought to do something about it.’

‘It would only come to our attention if they were committing a crime. There’s no law against people moving into the area, as long as they don’t cause trouble.’

‘That depends on what you mean by trouble,’ his brother-in-law said sourly. ‘No one seems to do know anything about it.’

‘Including the police,’ Bev’s mother remarked, glaring at Ian.

She never missed an opportunity to snipe at him.

Ian was relieved when he could escape to the kitchen to help Bev serve the main course. By the time they sat down again he was relieved to find the conversation had moved on from personal jibes to general affairs, desultory discussion about politics and a television series which Ian had never seen.

‘This looks wonderful,’ Bev’s mother said. ‘You are clever, Bev.’

‘Yes, you’re a lucky bloke,’ the brother-in-law said to Ian. ‘I wish I was fed like this at home.’

Bev’s sister slapped him playfully on the arm.

‘Shut up, Freddy. You do all right. And it’s not like she cooks like this every night, do you, Bev?’

‘There wouldn’t be much point,’ Bev said. ‘Ian isn’t often home in time for supper. We don’t all work regular hours, you know,’ she added quickly. ‘Ian can’t put off following a lead that will help him arrest a murderer, just because I’ve made dinner.’

She smiled complacently at Ian who lowered his eyes. He knew she was just putting on a show for her family, but was grateful for her support all the same. He wondered if, deep down, she really was proud of him.

H
ENRY WOKE UP EARLY
on Sunday with a thumping hangover, wishing he hadn’t drunk so much the night before. Mark wasn’t up and about yet. Henry decided not to disturb him. They had been growing closer since Martha’s death, but he didn’t want to push his luck. He set about making himself breakfast, although he had no appetite. After a paltry stab at eating, he needed some fresh air. Slipping into his coat, he had his first inkling that something was wrong when he couldn’t find his keys. They weren’t on his bedside table where he expected to see them, nor were they in the kitchen on a shelf beside the phone. He checked the pocket of the jacket he had been wearing the previous evening when he had gone out shopping, and everywhere else he could think of. At last he realised he must have left them in the car. He remembered Mark opening the front door for him when he got home from the supermarket, and he hadn’t been out since. Carefully propping the front door open with a shoe, he hurried outside and straight into a worse predicament. The car wasn’t there. He checked round the corner where he often left it, although he remembered parking right outside the house so it would be easier to unload the shopping.

He ran back indoors and raced upstairs, hoping no one else was in. In his present fit of good humour, Mark might have taken the car for a spin, or to the car wash. Reaching the landing, he tapped on Mark’s door. When there was no response he knocked more loudly until the door opened to reveal Mark in his dressing gown, blinking. He had clearly only just woken up.

‘What the hell –?’

‘Have you used the car this morning?’

‘What?’

‘The car. Have you used it?’

‘When?’

‘Today.’

‘Dad, I’ve only just got up. Haven’t you got a hangover?’

‘The car’s gone.’

‘What do you mean, it’s gone?’

Henry took a deep breath and explained that the car wasn’t outside, and he couldn’t find his keys anywhere. House keys and car keys had all disappeared.

‘Shit. Are you sure? Shall I help you look for them?’

Henry nodded miserably.

He could see in his face that Mark was thinking the same as him. It was too much of a fluke to suppose that someone had come along and nicked the car independently of Henry having misplaced his keys somewhere in the house. There was only one logical explanation: Henry had left the keys in the car and someone had helped themselves, a professional car thief, or some kid who had spotted the keys and taken the car for a joyride.

‘Bugger,’ Mark said. ‘We’ll have to change the lock on the front door.’

Henry groaned.

They searched for the keys without success. Finally Henry picked up the phone to call the police and report that his car had been stolen from right outside his house.