Dead Secret (5 page)

“Has Simon done a runner, do you think?” Ava asked as they made their way to the car park. Neal shrugged.

“Probably keeping a low profile. He must know he would have been spotted with Amy on Saturday evening.”

They reached the car and Ava slipped into the driver’s seat. “I take it we’re going to pay Anna Foster a visit?” she asked, putting the car into gear and barely waiting for an answer before heading towards the Turning Leaves Bookshop.

* * *

When Neal and Ava walked through the front door, Anna Foster was busy at her desk in a draught-protected alcove behind the entrance to her bookshop, tapping busily on her keyboard. Was it his imagination, or did she seem displeased to see them? Neal came straight to the point.

“My son doesn’t live here, Inspector,” Anna Foster replied in answer to Neal’s enquiry concerning Simon’s whereabouts. “Yes, this is his home and he has a room here, and he occasionally stays over, but we both agreed it would be good for him to be with people his own age when he went to university. No doubt at this time of day, he’ll be hard at work in the library. He’s very studious. He’s exceptional, in fact.” An image of the young man Ava had described flashed into Neal’s mind. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly exceptional about him. Clearly Anna Foster was a besotted mother. Neal smiled at this, for of course, in his eyes Archie was the most exceptional young man he had ever met.

He cleared his throat. He had been looking steadily at Anna Foster as she spoke and his professional detachment had begun to slip. Today her auburn hair was loose about her shoulders and she was wearing wide black linen trousers and a silky blouse in a floaty material that was practically see-through. If there was a type Neal preferred, Anna Foster fit the profile. There was the small matter of the age difference between them, which he thought might be as much as ten years, but was that really an issue?

“When did you last see your son, Ms Foster?” Neal enquired, after explaining that they had checked the university library and Simon’s flat.

“On Monday evening.” Anna turned to Ava. “We had supper at a bistro on the long hill after we bumped into you, Sergeant, and afterwards Simon went back to his flat at the university. I’m stocktaking this evening; he’s supposed to be coming by to give me a hand.”

“Is he often out of touch for this long?” Neal asked.

“This long? It’s barely been a day, Inspector. Simon’s a student; he has his own life. I don’t expect him to check in with me every day. “

“But he does work for you?” Neal prompted.

“On an informal basis. Simon loves books; he likes to help out. And of course he finds the money useful, although I think he’d help out even if I didn’t pay him; he’s that kind of person.”

Again, that glowing maternal admiration and pride. Neal wondered how objective Anna Foster was capable of being when it came to her son. Probably about as objective as he was about Archie.

“Why are you so interested in Simon? Do you think he’s got something to do with Amy Hill’s murder? I’ve already told Sergeant Merry that Simon was with me on Saturday evening.”

Neal dropped his bombshell, in the gentlest of tones; his eyes followed Anna Foster’s reaction closely.

“Ms Foster. A young man answering to your son’s description was seen outside the Odeon cinema with Amy Hill at approximately ten forty-five on the night of her murder. Please think carefully before reaffirming that Simon did indeed spend the entire evening with you.”

Anna Foster paled visibly but she answered without hesitation. “It wasn’t Simon. It couldn’t have been. He was with me all evening. We were going through the books from the library sale.”

Neal nodded solemnly. His sergeant made a noise that sounded like a snort hastily disguised as a cough.
Need to have a word with her about that
, Neal thought, irritably.

“Is it possible Simon may be staying with family or friends?”

“Simon doesn’t have any other family.” Anna fidgeted with her mouse lifting it slightly off the mat and replacing it, an action that she repeated several times, before standing up and confronting them.

“Simon is my adopted son. His birth mother is dead,” she said, flatly. “His father is . . . he’s inside.”

“He’s in prison?” asked Ava, surprised.

“He’s doing life for murder.”

“For killing Simon’s mother?” Neal asked, taking a leap.

“Beat her and left her for dead. Simon’s sister, Emily, disappeared and his father, Wade Bolan, was accused of killing her and hiding the body.”

“And Simon, how did he escape?” Neal asked.

“He was hiding in a wardrobe in his mother’s bedroom. No one is sure how much he witnessed. He doesn’t remember anything about it.”

“How old was he when you adopted him?” Neal asked, gently.

“He was six. He was fostered for a while after the tragedy. I already knew him from when his class visited the library I worked in, and I had always been quite taken with him. He was a very bright child, eager for books. His teacher told me he’d been taken into care because there was no other family to offer him a home, so I made some enquiries.”

“It can’t have been easy, taking on a child from such a background,” Neal remarked.

“Simon’s behaviour was sometimes . . . difficult. Challenging I suppose is the politically correct term now, but his intelligence helped him overcome a lot of his problems."

“That, and your care and influence I would imagine.”

Anna Foster coloured faintly at Neal’s compliment. “He was easy to love, Inspector,” she said in a whisper, her eyes clouding over as she gazed at her computer screen to avoid looking at Neal or Ava.

Neal dared not look at Ava. He had a lump in his throat. Was she aware that Archie was his Achilles heel? That, because of Archie, he could not bear the thought of any child being neglected or abused?

“Thank you for your time, Ms Foster.” Neal said. After a pause, he added, “Contact us immediately if Simon gets in touch. We need to talk to him as soon as possible.”

“I know,” Anna whispered tearfully, “but you’ll be wasting your time. Simon didn’t kill Amy Hill.” This time she did not reiterate her claim that Simon had been with her the night Amy died. Even Anna Foster must have realised that to repeat it would have sounded like desperation.

* * *

“What did you make of that?” Neal asked Ava as they walked back up the cobblestones towards the car park.

“I think she’s lying about the alibi,” Ava replied.

“A hunch?”

“You can call it that. But I think she’d say anything to protect Simon.”

“It’s a rare parent who can believe ill of their own child,” Neal admitted. “My guess is she doesn’t know what to think and she doesn’t want to betray Simon by believing the worst. One thing’s for sure, we need to speak to him. He might be the last person to see Amy alive, with the exception of her killer, of course.”

“Looks bad for him, though, doesn’t it, sir, the longer he stays missing?”

Neal didn’t answer, and not just because the question was rhetorical; he hoped, for Anna Foster’s sake, that Simon would turn up to help his mother with her stocktaking.

Chapter 5

“You’re just in time,” Maggie smiled, standing up to allow her brother to slide into the seat beside her in the spectator’s gallery. Archie was competing in a swimming gala, and Neal was grateful to have a good view of the pool.

He kissed his sister on the cheek, “All down to Ava,” he explained, a little embarrassed.

“Took some liberties with police privilege, did she?” Maggie said.

“Something like that,” replied Neal, thinking of the hairy drive to the leisure centre, with Ava negotiating the rush hour traffic at breakneck speed, red light flashing, siren blaring. It really wasn’t acceptable, but then again, he had told Archie he’d be there in time to see him compete in his heats.

“Look Jim, he’s waving to you.”

Neal looked in the direction Maggie was pointing and saw his son standing in the middle of a row of small boys shivering by the poolside. Archie was waving wildly, grinning all over his face. Neal waved back, commenting to Maggie, “He’s too skinny.”

Maggie shook her head. “Crap. He’s just as he should be. Probably grow up long and lanky like his dad.” She nodded towards the diving pool, and remarked; “Now that’s what I call skinny.”

A young girl was poised on the edge of the top diving board, arms stretched above her head, elongating her skeletal frame. She bent her knees then straightened, bouncing lightly on the board before launching into the air.

“She’ll drift like a feather,” Maggie said, watching as the girl turned a somersault before straightening her body to enter the water gracefully. Neal scarcely heard Maggie’s remark. He had not taken his eyes off the girl as she executed her perfect dive, and he leaned forward in his seat watching as she resurfaced and swam to the edge of the diving pool in three long strokes. At that point, his interest deepened for she was helped out of the pool by a young man dressed in the yellow polo shirt and black shorts worn by the centre’s lifeguards.

The young lifeguard slipped an arm around Becci Jones’s wisp of a waist and kissed her. It was Gary Reed, one of Simon Foster’s flatmates, whom he’d interviewed that morning. Neal raised an eyebrow. If Becci and Gary were an item, then how come Gary had claimed not to know Amy? Surely he would have known his girlfriend’s best friend and flatmate by more than sight, as he claimed? Neal sat back in his seat, contemplating, his eyes on the row of coloured flags fluttering across the shallow end of the pool above the line-up of eager young boys poised to dive, one of whom was Archie. Then the race began and Neal put all other thoughts out of his head as he cheered himself hoarse throughout his son’s heats.

* * *

The following morning, an excited Detective Sergeant Merry greeted Neal by thrusting a letter into his hand before he’d even removed his coat.

“What do you make of it?” she demanded before he’d even had a chance to finish perusing the contents.

“So who is this Professor Taylor?” Neal asked, confident that, even though the letter had just been received in that morning’s post, Ava would have done her homework already.

“Christopher Taylor. Lecturer in English at the university. He’s been there just over a year. Did his PhD on some poncy English Lit. topic that no one would have the slightest interest in reading. He’s thirty-three years old. Did his first degree at Sheffield. Taught English as a second language whilst completing his doctorate.

“He’s got a clean record, not so much as a parking ticket. It’s not a criminal offence to have an affair with your student, though I doubt the uni encourages such relationships, particularly when the age difference is so marked. Probably regards it as unprofessional. Would be a bit like you going out with a sixth former.”

Ava’s enthusiasm seemed to be dissipating as she spoke, “Maybe it doesn’t amount to much anyway. Probably just a spiteful letter from someone who was jealous of their relationship.”

“Whoever wrote this letter thinks it important,” Neal said, holding the sheet of paper in front of him, an anonymous note stating that Amy Hill had been having a relationship with her English professor.

“Let’s see if forensics can tell us anything about it. And add Taylor to our list of interviewees,” Neal answered.

“How did Archie get on last night?” Ava asked.

“He came third,” Neal answered, no hint of disappointment in his voice. “He was gutted. Maggie and I were ecstatic, of course. ”

He told Merry about Becci and Gary. “Gary claimed he didn’t know Amy, yet she shared a flat with his girlfriend.”

“It’s possible he never visited Becci at Beech Road. Depends how long they’ve been together, I suppose.” Ava remarked. “Did they seem like a well-established couple? Neal stared at her. “Why would he lie?” Ava asked. “That’s assuming he did lie, of course. Was it to dissociate himself from the whole affair, or to protect his girlfriend, perhaps?”

“What could Becci Jones need protecting from? Besides he must have known we’d already questioned her,” Neal answered. “We’ll need to speak to both of them again, as well as this Professor Taylor.”

* * *

Life was looking rosy for Christopher Taylor. Still only in his early thirties, he had completed his PhD and gained an appointment at a university which, if not in the same class as the prestigious Russell Group, was rising steadily in the league tables. Not bad for a boy who had grown up without a book in the house and whose father had told him the only higher education he was ever likely to receive was in the University of Life.

It wasn’t that his parents hadn’t wished him to do well; it was simply that they did not see education as a priority. Christopher had had to fight long and hard to persuade them that he was not cut out for life as a plumber; one of the promises he made in return for the privilege of being allowed to stay on at school was that he would work in his father’s business during the holidays, to earn his keep and learn a bit about the trade. Perhaps they thought learning a trade would stand him in good stead should he suddenly come to his senses and realise that university wasn’t for the likes of him.

Putting in time as his dad’s apprentice had been purgatory and a monumental waste, but at least he didn’t have to spend a fortune in call-out charges whenever he had a leaking tap. He prided himself on being a man who could turn his hand to most jobs around the house.

Pride was one of Christopher Taylor’s less agreeable attributes. He was proud of his achievements and proud of his appearance, and proud of the fact that women seemed to find him irresistible.

“’Ark at him,” his mum used to say, “thinks ‘e’s God’s gift,” but Christopher could hear the pride in his mother’s voice overriding her attempt at sarcasm. Most recently, he was proud of the publication of his first novel, which he did not doubt would propel him onto the bestseller list in no time.

Of course life had not always been a bed of roses. There was the bullying he had endured at school for instance, the price he had had to pay for having aspirations that were not in keeping with those of his peers. His left cheek still bore a scar from the wrong end of a broken bottle thrust into his face in a fight with a former ‘best mate’ who didn’t appreciate that Chris Taylor was no longer one of the lads. He had left the lads far behind; nowadays the scar was embedded in designer stubble and, if anything, enhanced his sexual allure.

Then there had been the tedious English teaching he had done to support himself through his years of postgraduate study, mostly with Asian immigrants, in that grotty community centre in Sheffield. And that ugly business with the daughter of one of his students. No-one had been able to prove anything, of course, he had been much too careful for that, but it was something in his life he had less cause to be proud of, if only because it put his other achievements in jeopardy. He had been much more careful the next time.

He would have to be careful now, he thought, looking down from the window of his mews townhouse in the fashionable uphill area of town, five minutes’ walk away from the cathedral, at the two police officers making their way towards him. His let his eyes linger on the woman. Who wouldn’t? If he hadn’t been expecting them he would never have taken her for a copper, though of course the only policewomen he could call to mind were the stern and sour PCs who had pulled him up for minor traffic violations. A mixture of good looks and charm had stood him in good stead then, but this woman might prove to be less susceptible.

She was limping, he noticed. He also noticed the way in which her companion walked close by her, close enough to steady her if she stumbled, and that told him a lot about the kind of man he was. The fact that she seemed unaware of this told him something about her too. Or did it tell him more about the relationship between them?

* * *

Neal and Ava were unaware that they were being appraised. Ava was concentrating on walking over the uneven road surface to the pavement. Her foot was throbbing from pressing on the foot pedals, but she had insisted on driving.

“Bloody road works,” she moaned, “why can’t they leave a flat surface and clear away more of those bloody pebbles?”

Neal didn’t comment. He had given up suggesting that Ava see a proper doctor about her intermittent problems with her foot. She had claimed she had seen, ‘a herbal bloke,’ who worked wonders with sports injuries, but there was scant evidence that his wonders were working for Ava.

“Nice view,” she remarked, turning back for a moment to check on the car, and give her foot a rest before tackling the stairs leading up to Taylor’s house. Behind them, beyond the parking spaces, the ground sloped away in an expanse of grassy wasteland ending in a string of regimented allotments. The view that Merry was referring to lay in the middle and far distance: the newly named marina and the university buildings; the South Common swollen with pools of floodwater sprawling out to where the city ended abruptly, as small cities do, in the surrounding countryside.

Directly in front of them, a short slope up from the pavement, was Christopher Taylor’s smart town house. The main entrance was via a highly varnished maroon door to the left of the garage. Above the garage was a terrace featuring a cluster of empty, weathered terracotta pots behind newly painted white wrought iron railings. Patio doors overlooked the balcony, offering a glimpse of the room beyond.

Taylor answered his doorbell — an annoying rendition of the ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ — promptly, and ushered them into a narrow hallway with an eye-tricking zig-zag Escher runner.

“We’ll go upstairs,” he said breezily, “there’s only the kitchen and a cloakroom down here.”

Ava gazed down at her foot and rolled her eyes.

“My apologies for the mess,” Taylor said, as he opened the door into his spotless living area, “I’ve been working.”

The light-filled room that he led them into was impeccably tidy, except for a scattering of papers and books around a computer table near the patio doors. Evidently, the professor liked to admire the view whilst working.

The room had a Mediterranean feel: pale blue walls and a tiled floor, white furnishings and rugs in sunny colours.

In summer, the pots on the balcony were probably bursting with geraniums. Christopher Taylor’s heart obviously yearned for climes much further south, and Ava, appraising his blonde good looks and honed physique, had no trouble picturing him somewhere Greek and Olympian.

“To tell you the truth I was a little taken aback when you called and asked to interview me,” Taylor said, addressing Ava. “I really don’t see that I can be of much help. I was one of Amy Hill’s lecturers, that’s all.”

“Is that right?” Ava said coolly, “we’ve heard differently.”

“Really? From whom?”

Ava glanced at Neal. She could hardly cite an anonymous letter as her source.

“Sergeant?” Taylor prompted.

“That’s not your concern. The point is your name has been connected with Amy Hill’s.” Neal’s voice filled the awkward silence.

“In what way?” asked Taylor.

“You tell us,” Ava replied.

Taylor removed the fine taupe cashmere sweater that had been draped around his shoulders and slung it casually over the back of the nearest chair. He was wearing a light blue chambray shirt and slim fit navy chinos that flattered his trim waist and long legs. For a moment he stood, hand on hip as if inviting them to admire his model good looks, oozing charm and elegance. It was all Ava could do to keep her mind on the job. But she guessed that his mind was turning somersaults, calculating, wondering how much they knew. How much he could get off without saying. The truth was, they had nothing on him.

“I was aware that Amy had a bit of a crush on me,” Taylor said, “a lot of my female students do, you know. It’s not something I encourage, of course.”

I bet you don’t, Ava thought cynically. “Meaning?” she asked politely.

“Meaning, Sergeant Merry, that I don’t make a practice of becoming romantically involved with my students.” He looked Ava up and down. “Besides, she wasn’t my type.”

It’s a curse, Ava thought, that blushing is a reflex virtually impossible to control. In addition to colouring, she felt hot and prickly all over as though she were an animal whose hackles were rising in warning, or was it something else — a spark of sexual attraction? Was she really so shallow as to be flattered by the attentions of the demi-god that was Professor Christopher Taylor? Warning bells sounded; she couldn’t afford to let him gain the upper hand by submitting so readily to his animal magnetism.