Fatal Legacy (32 page)

Thursday morning dawned clear and bright. The sudden change in the weather brought a promise of warmth that did nothing to soften DI Blite’s mood as he prepared for his interview with Sally Wainwright-Smith. Fenwick had called a meeting with Quinlan and Harper-Brown that morning in the hope of persuading them to authorise Sally’s arrest. It hadn’t worked. A decision had been taken, against Blite and Fenwick’s
recommendations
, that they still had insufficient grounds to arrest her although Fenwick had pushed the point almost to argument with the ACC. It had been a rare and uncomfortable moment for Blite. He wanted a conviction and now agreed completely with Fenwick that Sally was their prime suspect, but inevitably they had run into fierce resistance when they had briefed the ACC and the Superintendent.

By mutual agreement Fenwick and Blite had said nothing about their now shared suspicions about Alan Wainwright’s suicide, and made no mention of Fish’s murder. They had concentrated entirely on Graham’s death, and outlined their initial summary of evidence with growing confidence. Fenwick had listed the case against Sally: a fifteen-million-pound motive; no alibi for the time of the murder; her fingerprints on the vegetable box recovered from the kitchen at the Hall; her treatment of the body once she had been left alone by Jeremy Kemp; her inexplicable hysterics; her pestering of both Fenwick and Blite during their investigations with queries and concerns about Jenny – classic ‘guilty’ behaviour.

Blite left until last the discovery of an eye-witness who might have seen Graham and Sally together under the beech tree on the morning of his death, and had presented it as his
final trump card. Unfortunately the ACC had pressed him hard on the details and he had had to admit that yes, the boy was retarded, and yes, he couldn’t be sure that the man was Graham, although he had insisted it was someone very like him.

‘It’s not good enough, Inspector, and I’m very disappointed to have you deliver a stream of coincidence and conjecture as if it were firm evidence. No, I will not authorise you to arrest her, and I’m sure Superintendent Quinlan agrees with me.’

The Superintendent had little option but to concur, although he had considerable sympathy with his officers and supported their conclusion. Sally Wainwright-Smith had become the obvious suspect, not least because she had had both motive and opportunity to commit the crime; but her arrest would be high profile, and if she didn’t break under questioning they would have to release her again, because they didn’t have enough to hold her.

‘I agree, sir. However, her behaviour is sufficiently erratic for there to be a chance that she might confess if questioned in the right way, or at least reveal more information for us to work on. I recommend that she be brought in for questioning at the station but not arrested.’

The ACC had regarded Quinlan with obvious surprise.

‘Very well. So you believe she’s guilty as well?’

‘Yes, sir, I do.’

‘The whole team does, sir. No other suspect, with the possible exception of her husband, has the same combination of motive and opportunity.’

The ACC’s face hardened at the very mention of Alexander, and he frowned at Fenwick for making the suggestion.

‘I see. Notwithstanding, you are to follow procedures to the letter. The Wainwrights have money and influence, and under
no
circumstances do I want to hear even the hint of a complaint against us. Understood?’ He glared at Fenwick as he spoke, despite the fact that it would be Blite who conducted the interrogation.

‘Understood, sir.’

In the corridor outside Harper-Brown’s office, Blite and Fenwick experienced a rare moment of shared frustration at the ACC’s overly cautious approach. Blite murmured under his
breath, ‘Arse-licker,’ which the Superintendent, appearing suddenly behind them, overheard but chose to ignore.

In the tiny lift that they shared down to the ground floor Quinlan suddenly remarked: ‘He wants a conviction just as much as you do, but he has to balance so much else. None of us can do our job effectively if we have no resources or if the local political environment becomes difficult. The Assistant Chief Constable manages that for us, and whether you like it or not, the Wainwrights have been the most influential family in this county for years. He’s right to make us doubly sure.’

Fenwick’s head agreed with Superintendent Quinlan’s logic, but in his heart he saw the ACC’s behaviour as sycophantic and career-serving. He heard himself say, ‘So there is one law for the rich and another for the poor, then!’ and immediately regretted it.

Superintendent Quinlan looked at him in exasperation.

‘I have a high regard for your detective work, Fenwick, so I’ll choose to ignore that remark. But careers are built on more than great police work, remember that.’

Fenwick had agreed tactics with Blite for the interview with Sally. Blite would go and collect her from the Hall with DC Nightingale, whilst the Chief Inspector visited her husband at his office to share all they knew about her background, in case Sally tried to appeal to him when Blite arrived. Claire Keating would join Blite at the station to sit in on the interview.

Now Blite checked his watch; it was well past the hour, so Fenwick should already be with Alexander. As he waited for Sally to answer the door, he stared at the stone gargoyles that guarded the forbidding oak and fashioned his face into a grimace of reply. This was a terrible place. Even on a bright morning, the granite stonework seemed to absorb the sunlight and cast the house into gloom. The gardens were starting to show signs of neglect, and the windows were grimy where soot from the chimneys had settled in long streaks.

Sally opened the door herself. She was dressed in a black polo-neck sweater and designer jeans and from a distance would have passed for a teenager. But there were new signs of strain in her face. Dark circles had formed under her eyes and her skin
had lost its wonderful lustre. Her jumper smelt of stale cigarette smoke, and Blite thought he could smell alcohol behind the disguise of fresh mouthwash.

‘Your men are still searching the grounds, Inspector. I think they are in the woods – I’ve a four-wheel-drive car if you need a lift out there.’

‘I haven’t come to talk to the team, Mrs Wainwright-Smith. We need to interview you again and we’d like to do it at the station. If you’d come with us, please …’

‘Why?’

‘We need to question you in connection with the death of Graham Wainwright.’

‘You’ve already done that.’

‘Further matters have come to light since then that we need to talk to you about.’

‘What?’

‘We can go into that at the station.’

‘Can Alex be with me?’

‘I’m afraid not, but you are entitled to have a solicitor with you, should you wish.’

The severity of his tone made her blanch, but she said nothing and turned back into the entrance hall, leaving Blite and Nightingale on the threshold. They heard her voice demanding to be put through to Jeremy Kemp. She explained what was happening and then called out:

‘Inspector, Mr Kemp wants to talk to you.’

Blite stepped inside and took the receiver from her.

‘DI Blite here, Mr Kemp.’

‘Is this strictly necessary?’

‘At this stage, sir, we are simply
requesting
that Mrs Wainwright-Smith comes to the station. If she refuses, we may have to consider alternatives that I’m trying to avoid.’

‘I see. Let me speak to her again.’

Within minutes, Sally had joined Blite in the marked police car he had chosen to use to collect her from the Hall. Jeremy Kemp was waiting for them at the station, together with Claire Keating, the police psychiatrist. As soon as they were in the interview room with the tape running and necessary
introductions
and cautions made, Blite confronted Sally with the news
that she had been seen with Graham on the morning of his death at the place where his body had been discovered. She denied it, and Blite asked whether she would therefore be happy to participate in an identity parade. Jeremy Kemp intervened.

‘Are you sure this is required, Inspector?’

‘Your client can refuse to participate, but after her assurance that she did not meet Graham on the day he died, a jury might find it rather odd that she chose not to clear our suspicions when given the chance.’

The casual mention of the word ‘jury’ silenced them both. Sally went white, Jeremy Kemp pink. She asked for a cigarette, then a coffee, but when she went to take a tablet from a small brown bottle of pills, Blite asked her to pass the bottle over.

‘What are these?’

‘My medication.’ Her voice was hard, but with a slight quaver in it that gave her away.

‘I’d rather you didn’t take one just now.’

‘My client is entitled to her prescription, Inspector.’

‘Not if it impairs her ability to answer my questions with a clear mind, and they are only antidepressants after all.’

‘I need them!’ Sally’s voice was a squeal of indignation as she fumbled to take the bottle from Blite.

‘Calm down, Sally, it’s OK. Don’t let him get to you.’ Kemp’s voice was soothing, as if he was trying to pacify a skittish horse.

Claire Keating watched the play of conflicting emotions cross Sally’s face: surprise, fear, anger, cunning; she saw them all before they were extinguished behind an insolent look that she was more used to seeing on the faces of juvenile delinquents. Sally took a deep breath, then another, and smoothed her hair back into place.

‘You’re right, of course. It’s just that this is all so ridiculous.’

‘So you deny that you met Graham Wainwright on the morning of his death?’

‘Yes.’

‘Despite that fact that you were seen with him on the morning of his death? And
his
fingerprints were found on a box of fruit and vegetables delivered to the Hall on the morning he died?’

They both looked at him in silence. Sally’s face was
expressionless, but her eyes darted away from Blite’s. She studied the scuffed floor of the interview room, obviously trying to control her emotions. Kemp’s complexion had become bright red. He turned to her with an expression of intense concern.

‘You don’t need to say anything, Sally, remember that.’

‘Mr Kemp is right, Mrs Wainwright-Smith, but remember, juries have their own way of interpreting silence.’

She shook her head at Kemp dismissively and looked up at Blite again with a show of defiance.

‘This signifies nothing, Inspector. Whoever claims to have seen me with Graham is lying, and I don’t know how his fingerprints found their way on to the box, and I suspect you don’t either.’

Blite ignored her answer, asking instead:

‘Tell me about Donald Glass.’

The change of subject threw her and baffled Kemp. Blite let the silence develop, then said:

‘We interviewed him this week about your attack on him. You’ve got a nasty temper. He said you nearly killed him, and he has the scar to prove it.’

‘I have nothing further to say.’

‘Things don’t look too good, Mrs Wainwright-Smith. Wouldn’t it be better to tell us everything, get it all out in the open?’

‘You heard my client; she has nothing further to say.’ Kemp was trying to sound calm, but it was obvious just by looking at him that he was struggling and out of his depth.

‘I want to go home.’ Sally rose to her feet without waiting for an answer, quite the lady of the manor giving an instruction to her chauffeur.

‘I have further questions, Sally.’ The informal use of her first name punctured her hauteur. ‘Please sit down.’

After a brief pause she obeyed. The tape was still running.

‘I have nothing further to say,’ she repeated.

‘So be it, but I have.’

At first Blite tried to shock her by announcing that an identity parade was being arranged. When that didn’t work he kept up a continuous stream of questions, ranging from who benefited from Graham’s death to Sally’s lie to Shirley and Irene on the
day Graham had died. He kept his tone neutral throughout so that he could never be accused of intimidation. Although she said nothing, he knew that her silence during his statement of all the evidence they had collected against her would sound damning in court. Claire watched Sally intently, but although Blite’s monotonous repetition of the case against her might serve his purposes, it did little to probe beneath the surface of Sally’s denial.

At the end of three hours Blite let them go, obviously frustrated that he had failed to break Sally’s defences despite her nervousness. He told her to make herself available for the identity parade that was being organised either for later that day or for the following morning and to let them know where they could contact her if she left the Hall. As soon as they had gone, he turned to Claire and Nightingale and swore.

‘That was a bloody waste of time. Did you get anything out of it?’

He didn’t believe in the use of police psychiatrists and regarded Claire with barely concealed contempt. She was used to worse and answered him evenly.

‘Not a lot; she said very little. She’s very defensive and nervous. There are strong emotions there under the surface that she was having trouble controlling at the beginning of the interview, but then she seemed to shut down somehow. I’m not sure how sustainable that is. She has to be in control, that’s obvious, and when she’s not, she is far more vulnerable and unpredictable.

‘My recommendation would be to bring her in for
questioning
without notice at least a couple of times more. Let me know when. I have appointments from noon but could be free at four o’clock or six. Early tomorrow morning is good for me too.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Blite’s rude dismissal was like water off a duck’s back to Claire, which irritated him even further, and as soon as she had gone he started criticising her contribution and complaining that their case was starting to fall apart. His implied criticism of Fenwick annoyed Nightingale, but she was smart enough to let it go.

‘The identity parade will help, sir.’

‘Don’t hold your breath, Constable. I’ve had retards as
witnesses before.’ He didn’t notice Nightingale wince at his choice of words. ‘They’re a gift to the defence, believe me. Still, it’s all we have left at the moment.’