Requiem Mass (33 page)

‘Is this all really necessary? What’s going on? Why have you dragged me down here at this time of night? I’m needed at home.’ She paused for a moment, then asked the question that was obviously troubling her. ‘I’m not under arrest, am I?’

‘No, Mrs Smith, you are not at this time. You have been asked to the station to help us with our inquiries into the deaths of Mrs Fearnside and Miss Johnstone. We have interviewed you before but we have reason to believe you have been withholding information from us which is relevant to our enquiries and …’

He stopped. Leslie Smith’s face had turned from yellow to a sickening greenish white. Her bloodshot eyes stared at him in horror as she chewed at her bottom lip.

‘Deborah? Debbie’s dead? Oh my God, I didn’t know. When? How did it happen?’

‘Mrs Fearnside’s body was found a few weeks ago.’ He spoke a little more gently; her distress was obvious and genuine.
Several moments passed in which all that would be heard on the tape were muffled sobs. The WPC returned with drink machine water and left again in search of tissues. Fenwick gave Smith a few more minutes.

‘I am sure you can understand that the discovery of Deborah’s body has added a new dimension to our inquiries, Mrs Smith. In particular, it’s led us to review again the circumstances of Carol Truman’s death.’

Smith’s head jerked upwards. She tried to avoid his eyes but kept sneaking sideways checks, as if she was compelled to confirm he was still there. Her bottom lip was red raw as she worried at it.

‘Now perhaps you’ll tell us why you have been less than open with us. Tell us what you know.’

Smith clamped her lips shut and unexpectedly folded her arms. Fear or guilt had suddenly provided her with an unexpected hidden strength. She glared at Fenwick as she spoke.

‘Before we go on, I’ve changed my mind about a solicitor. I want one here. Now!’

After a number of fruitless telephone calls, Leslie Smith had to be allowed home. She was adamant that she wanted her own solicitor – not one from legal aid, and when the police eventually reached him by phone, he was equally adamant that the police were being unreasonable in seeking to continue the interview at that hour. He strongly advised his client to terminate the interview and rearrange it for a time
mutually convenient to them both
. No amount of muttering about ‘withholding evidence’ would make him shift. He remained unconvinced and so did his client. Either the police charged Smith or they let her go home.

To make matters worse, Smith was categoric that she would not be able to return to the station until late in the morning, claiming her rehearsal with the Oxlea Singers for the Requiem Mass as an excuse. The solicitor was also unavailable, in court with a client. Short of arresting Smith, for which he had insufficient grounds, Fenwick was forced to accept an 11.30 appointment the next day, before Smith stalked off into the
oppressive night. As she left, the first faint breath of breeze stirred the window blinds.

‘Fancy a pint?’ Fenwick was trying to arrange the tumbled piles of paper on his desk into neat parallel stacks, with little success. There was just so much – and so many bulldog clips, wallets and plastic folders, that each one cascaded gently on to his blotter or to the floor the moment his hands left them.

Cooper paused in the act of lifting his latest tweed jacket to his shoulder, this one a Prince of Wales check in deference to the season. It must have been less than five years old as the elbows were still in their original, unpatched state. He hid his surprise. It was unusual, these days, for Fenwick to suggest a drink.

‘It’s closing time nearly. Y’sure you don’t need to go home, sir?’

‘Not tonight, not yet.’ Fenwick was restless, irritated. The thought of shutting the door on the day depressed him. If they hurried, they’d just make last orders. ‘Come on, if you fancy one that is – and drop the sir; we’re off duty as of now.’

They walked together to the pub at the end of the road from the station, entering as the bell was rung. It was virtually empty, but they still took their pints out of the smoky, stuffy atmosphere into the small garden, where the car park lights lit up a few tables. They were on their own except for a smooching couple literally wrapped up in themselves. Half their pints disappeared in long, satisfying draughts. It was Cooper that broke the thoughtful silence.

‘Things are better now – at home, I mean – now that Mrs Fenwick … I mean, well, now … Sorry, I don’t know how to ask.’

‘That’s all right. I understand. Things are getting better, yes. The children are more settled and my mother’s a marvel. How are things with you?’

‘Surviving. Ellen’s got one more year at university, she’s reading Geography. Seems to love every minute, though heaven knows what good it will do her. We rarely see her now – but
that’s to be expected, I suppose. ’Course Janey’s same as always. Lives in the next road and is very good. We see quite a bit of her and the nipper. The lad’s not going to university. I’ve got him an apprenticeship at the local garage. He nearly missed out there, till they found out who his dad was.’ Cooper grinned. ‘Always helps, that. It’s not what I’d expected of him but it’s a job and he’s taken to it straight away. Works harder than I’ve ever seen ’im before, and his mother’s pleased. He’s good with his hands too. My motor’s never run better.’

Fenwick’s pint had gone. Cooper picked up the glasses without asking and went inside. The landlord was another one who remembered who he was. Moments later, he was back with full tankards.

‘On the house.’

Fenwick started to protest.

‘Seriously, he was just closing the till, said he’d rather not have the hassle of cashing up again.’ Fenwick took a huge swallow and ignored the half-truth. His mind inevitably had returned to work.

‘What’s happening on Victor Rowland? Have you traced him yet?’

‘Not a chance. I’m being stonewalled by ministry bureaucrats.’ Cooper sounded exasperated. ‘He was on the list all right. He left in February this year, but I can’t find him. He’s not local and the army’s not letting on where he’s gone – if they know.’

‘Do we know what regiment he was in? Perhaps we could trace him through friends still in the service.’

‘Thought of that one. They’re not budging, tell me the files are not in the public domain. Public domain, my arse. Bloody civil servants. I told them, we’re talking about a double murder investigation here but they didn’t want to know.’

‘Is it time to roll in the ACC? He’d do it if we asked him.’

‘P’raps. I’d hate to do it, though – it’s such an admission of defeat. But we need to find Rowland, particularly now Leslie Smith’s back in the country.’

‘What?’ Fenwick looked at him closely. Cooper was usually
phlegmatic, calm. He seemed worried and if he had doubts about Leslie Smith’s safety, Fenwick was concerned.

Cooper was embarrassed. ‘Well, sir. About twenty years ago, five young girls set off for a walk on a school trip. One died and we don’t know how. Now, two more are dead, within months of each other, and we know all too well how they died! Two are left. One of them knows more’n she’s telling, which makes her a potential suspect or potential victim. The other’s famous, charming,’ he looked sidelong at Fenwick, ‘and has an alibi that we discover, on cross-checking, is a little dodgy. Into the picture comes a mysterious cousin of the dead girl. Discharged from the army in February and untraceable since.’

‘But you’re the sceptic. We have nothing stronger than my hunch that all this is connected to the past, the possibility that the killer used a service knife and unexplained roses!’

‘I know, sir, but there’s enough here to make me suspicious –
and
concerned. I know I started sceptical like, but I’m not now. And, frankly, I reckon I’m more convinced than you are at present. I’m worried about little Mrs Smith. Don’t ask me why. Thumb’s pricking I s’pose.’

It was a long speech for Cooper, a man of few opinions and fewer words but he was a good policeman. Fenwick turned over what he had said and his own anxiety grew. It had been his, Fenwick’s, instinct, that had sent them off down a tortuous path into the past but recently he had deliberately tuned out his feelings about the case to concentrate on the facts. He knew why.

He had become too close to Octavia Anderson and he was scared of his emotions obscuring his judgement. So he had shut them off and in consequence risked damaging his handling of the case anyway. It had been left to his unimaginative, solid sergeant to show him how close he was to making a big mistake. Even at the reconstruction he had been wrong. He had been concentrating so hard on the timings and the routes, the minutiae of events, that he had missed the obvious. Carol Truman could not possibly have fallen accidentally from the main path.

Now that he had uncaged his instinct again, Fenwick was
worried too. Octavia was still out of the country, villainess or victim, and there was not much he could do about her until she returned at the end of August. But he could set someone to watch Smith. As Cooper sat patiently in the buggy, clammy darkness, Fenwick rose abruptly.

‘I’m heading back to the station. I’ll arrange for someone to watch Smith’s house tonight and for surveillance tomorrow. It’s late, and I’ll have to bribe Ralph somehow to find someone, but you’re right. We can’t leave her.’

‘But your pint!’

‘You have it, Cooper, you’re the one who’s earned it!’

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Surveillance is a grand term for a tedious, monotonous, sleep-inducing job. DC Charles Watkins was still new enough to the force to be keen. When he heard that Detective Chief Inspector Fenwick needed a favour, he was the first to volunteer, before he had even found out what it was. Now, at 3.20 a.m., as his colleague left to stretch his legs and relieve himself, he struggled vainly against an overwhelming desire to sleep as he sat in the least uncomfortable position in the passenger seat of their unmarked car. By 3.22 a.m. he was asleep.

A black Ford Scorpio with tinted windows cruised slowly to the end of the street and paused. For long moments the two cars rested motionless, less than a hundred yards apart. Then the Scorpio inched forward and drove past at a steady 30 m.p.h. Moments later there was a soft thump of a car door being closed quietly and a shadow slid between the fence and car in the Smiths’ driveway. Two minutes later it was gone. DC Watkins stirred but did not wake up until a distant roll of thunder disturbed the night and his colleague made an urgent return to the car.

Life was hell in the Smith household on Tuesday morning. A violent thunderstorm before dawn had woken the children and dog, all of whom had insisted on shelter in the parental bed. Leslie and Brian, besieged by sharp elbows and importunate knees, legs pinned down with the bulk of frisky retriever, had abandoned their pretence at sleep by six o’clock.

Leslie rose to tackle the first load of holiday washing with a sinking heart. The torrential rain, battering the westerly windows of the house, brought with it the prospect of sagging racks of damp laundry too delicate for the tumble dryer.

Brian left early for his first day back at work, routinely patting the children’s heads and pecking his wife on the cheek. The dog, returned from their obliging next-door neighbour, received a genuinely affectionate farewell. Brian was glad to get out of the house, away from the children, already bored and playing their PC games too loud as a consequence.

It was with relief that Leslie bundled the children and dog into the car two hours later. Mavis Dean had agreed to look after them while she attended choir practice. It was likely to be a long session as there were only three further rehearsals before the full dress rehearsal. She was conscious that her own performance was below the required standard. Her worry about being shown up almost put the dread of her visit to the police out of her mind. Almost. Leslie Smith was a deeply confused and disturbed woman.

Just running from the house to the car left them all soaked. Moving into the storm was like standing under a huge power shower. By the time Leslie had secured the dog safely in the back of the estate the windows were already steamed up, with childish drawings appearing in the condensation. She turned the key in the ignition and the engine coughed apologetically. She turned it again and it whirred in protest but failed to catch.

The third-hand car, left standing in a heat wave for three weeks and now drenched since before dawn, appeared to have selected that Tuesday as one of its non-performance days. They were rare, admittedly, usually triggered by the damp, but regular trips to the local garage had failed to produce either diagnosis or cure. From bitter experience, Leslie knew they had no option but to walk. Across the road, PC Adams, who had replaced Watkins and colleague at eight o’clock, was praying for the car to start too and his spirits sank as he watched the family step out into the rain. What a day to have to follow on foot.

‘Right, out you lot. Matthew, put up your hood
before
you
leave the car. Jamie, put your raincoat back on.’ She just had time to walk to Mavis’s and reach the school in time for the practice; her early start meant that she was ahead of her schedule.

The children’s wellingtons were in the back of the estate along with the dog. Within minutes they were happily finding puddles and enjoying the walk, oblivious to the following policeman and the grey shapes of cars crawling by on the flooding roads. Leslie, in her grey-green mac and hood became resigned to arriving as a wet mop at the rehearsal and began to have fun with the children too.

She turned down Mavis’s offer of a lift. She was already wet to her skin and the school was less than ten minutes away. She kissed the children goodbye and set off again at a brisk pace.

The persistent drumming of the rain on her hood was deafening, blocking out all noise from the few passing pedestrians and swishing traffic. She walked on quickly, head down, peripheral vision obscured by the jutting square cut of the hood. Her mind flitted between immediate concerns about the second soprano chorus and her meeting later with the police. She was scared but silence, and the blank spaces in her story that were tantamount to lies, had become reality for her over the years. Not even Brian knew the truth, nor had Debbie. Why, oh why had she decided to confide in Kate? It had been an extraordinary, daring lapse, quite out of character, but she told herself she had nothing to fear. She had made Kate promise, on the Bible, never to go to the authorities and she knew Kate would not break her word.