Rob Johnson - Lifting the Lid (10 page)

‘I must say I’d hoped for rather more cooperation,’ he said after another lengthy pause.

Doyle spread his palms wide but said nothing.

‘I mean, all you’ve told us is that you led the investigation into Imelda Hawkins’s disappearance, that you never found her and that you didn’t suspect foul play or even that she was dead at all.’ Logan leaned forward across the table. ‘Why not?’

‘As I said before, it was a long time ago.’

‘Long time? Eighteen months?’

‘Memory’s not what it used to be, I’m afraid.’ Doyle tapped the side of his head as if to emphasise the point.

‘Oh come off it, Doyle. That’s bullshit, and you know it.’

Again the spread palms and the sealed lips.

Logan stopped drumming and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘What happened? Someone get to you, did they? Told you to drop the case?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Freemason, are you?’

Doyle gripped the arms of his chair. ‘What the hell has that got to—’

Both Doyle and Swann were facing towards the house, and they could see his wife step out through the sliding patio door with a tray of tea things. Unseen by Logan, he opened his mouth to speak, but Swann shook her head at him to keep quiet.

There was something incongruous about a woman serving tea in a figure-hugging black dress that would have been far better suited to some swish cocktail party at the Savoy. Swann was no fashion expert, but she guessed it was expensive designer gear, and the double string of pearls round her neck looked like the genuine article too.

‘Sorry it’s taken so long,’ said Doyle’s wife. ‘Phone rang just as I’d filled the pot. The tea had gone cold by the time I’d finished, so I had to start all over again. It never ceases to amaze me how some folks can jabber on. Hah, I’d like to see their phone bills. Still, I suppose it is Saturday, and most people have that free-calls-at-the-weekend thing nowadays, don’t they? Now, who’s going to be mother?’

Swann pretended to study her notebook, partly to conceal a giggle and partly because she was aware that three pairs of eyes were probably trained on her.

‘Pop it down here, love. I’ll do it,’ she heard Doyle say.

‘It was Jessica by the way, darling. Wants to know if we’re going to the Ladies’ Night at the Lodge again this year.’

Swann looked up to clock the pained expression on Doyle’s face and the broad wink that Logan threw at her.

‘Can we talk about it later?’ said Doyle. ‘We’re right in the middle of something at the moment.’

‘Catching up on old times, eh? Okay, I can take a hint. I’ll leave you to your reminiscing then.’

She gave her husband an affectionate pat on the shoulder and headed back towards the patio door.

‘Speaking of old times,’ said Logan loudly enough for her to hear. ‘You still see anything of Veronica from Admin these days, Tom?’

There was a choking sound and the clatter of cups and saucers as Doyle came close to dropping the teapot. Swann thought she detected a slight hesitation in his wife’s step, but she might have been mistaken.

‘What the bloody hell did you have to say that for?’ said Doyle as soon as his wife had disappeared back into the house.

It was Logan’s turn to spread his palms wide, and he added a self-satisfied smirk for good measure.

‘Attractive woman, your wife,’ he said. ‘Must be, what? Twelve, fifteen years younger than you?’

‘You threatening to blackmail me, Logan?’

‘But I’m a police officer. How could you think such a thing?’ He sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Mind you, I seem to remember that Tony Ambrose took a fair few photos at your retirement bash. I wonder if—’

‘All right. All right. What is it you want?’

‘Three sugars, please.’

Swann wondered if it was physically possible for someone to actually explode from smugness. Doyle was showing no sign of picking up the teapot again, and Logan was obviously far too busy congratulating himself. She was gasping for a cuppa, and if she was ever going to get one, it seemed she’d have to be mother after all. She stood up and pulled the tea tray towards her.

‘Either of you wearing a wire?’ said Doyle.

Logan and Swann exchanged glances.

‘A what?’ said Logan.

‘I’m not saying another word till I know this isn’t being recorded.’

‘And why would we want to do that exactly?’

‘You want me to frisk you?’

Doyle’s “Donger” nickname flashed into Swann’s brain, and she felt a wave of nausea at the idea of a full body search. He wasn’t nearly as repulsive as she’d imagined he would be, and despite the wavy white hair, baggy eyes and sagging jowls, she could tell he’d probably been not bad looking in his day. Even so, a letch was a letch, and she had no desire to have his hands all over her.

‘Trust me,’ said Logan. ‘We’re not wearing wires.’

‘Trust
you
?’

He ignored the jibe and ploughed straight on. ‘So what made you think Imelda wasn’t dead?’

‘Call it… a copper’s intuition.’

Logan waited for him to continue. He didn’t. ‘Care to elaborate?’

‘For a start, we never found a body.’ Doyle raised a hand to silence Logan, who seemed to be on the point of interrupting. ‘You want to let me finish? – Nor was there any kind of motive for murder. No enemies to speak of. No-one stood to gain financially. Not even the husband.’

‘You interviewed him presumably.’

‘Of course we interviewed him,’ said Doyle, his tone clearly conveying his resentment at being taught how to suck eggs. ‘Several times in fact. You know as well as I do that the husband is always the most likely suspect in cases like this.’

‘And?’

‘Well he was either bloody clever and an exceptionally gifted actor, or he was totally innocent.’ He took a sip of his tea and winced. ‘Put it this way,’ he added, spooning sugar into his cup. ‘He was certainly no Einstein in the brains department.’

‘He have an alibi?’

‘For what?’

Logan sighed. ‘For the time she disappeared.’

‘But that’s the thing of it. No-one knew precisely
when
she went AWOL. She was a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company, so she was often away for days at a time. On this particular occasion, she’d checked into a hotel in Birmingham for four nights, but nobody’d seen her from the moment she signed the register till she was due to vacate the room.’

‘So it could have been any time during those four days.’

Doyle nodded.

‘What about her employers?’ said Logan. ‘You check with them?’

‘Course I checked.’ Again the sucking eggs tone of voice. ‘At least, I tried to.’

Logan raised an eyebrow.

‘No such company ever existed apparently. We found some letterheads at her house, but the address turned out to be an abandoned warehouse in Cheam.’

‘And you didn’t think that was suspicious?’

Doyle rolled his head back and gazed up at the sky. ‘God give me strength.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Logan. ‘So what did Trevor have to say about it?’

‘Seemed genuinely gobsmacked. Went all pale and vacant, like he’d gone into some kind of trance.’

Logan started drumming his fingers on the edge of the table once again. ‘Then what?’

‘Then nothing. No body. Trail had gone cold. We couldn’t pin anything on the husband, so that, as they say, was that.’

‘You’re kidding me, right?’

Doyle fixed him with a Mona Lisa smile.

‘And what happened to the file?’ said Logan.

‘End of interview, I think.’ Doyle pushed back his chair and got to his feet.

‘So who was it that got you to drop the case and make out it never happened?’

Doyle was already making his way across the patio towards the house. ‘Use the side gate on your way out, will you?’ he called back over his shoulder.

Logan jumped up and almost sent his chair flying. ‘Who was it, Doyle? How much they pay you, eh?’

Swann thought she heard a faint chuckle as Doyle stepped inside and slid the patio door shut behind him.

* * *

As Logan began to back the car up the gravel driveway, Swann could see Doyle in the front room window. He was on the phone and gesticulating wildly at whoever he was talking to.

‘I think we might have rattled him,’ she said.

‘Stroke of genius, wouldn’t you say? The stuff about Veronica and the photos.’

She decided not to feed his already bloated ego. ‘D’you think he really did take a bribe then?’

‘Expensive house. Fancy car. Wife dripping with designer fashion. Must be on a bloody good pension if he didn’t.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

This was the second time in the space of a few minutes that Patterson had been subjected to the ridicule of a small group of total strangers, and he was less than happy about it. He had never liked being the centre of attention even in social situations – not that he ever encountered many of those – but it was part of his job to be as inconspicuous as possible. Being publicly groped by three almost naked, middle-aged Cupids would hardly conform to anyone’s notion of blending in with the crowd, and now here he was, sat on his arse in a puddle of muddy water, being watched by a bunch of guffawing buffoons. He scrambled to his feet and scowled as he felt the cold wetness of his pale beige trousers clinging to his lower regions.

‘You all right, chief?’

Patterson rounded on his denim-clad colleague, his mouth loaded with a variety of abusive remarks, but his brain seemed unable to select any one in particular. Instead, he pointed at the guy with the ponytail who was staggering away and bouncing off the occasional parked car. ‘Get after him, Colin. I want a word.’

‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know yet, but I reckon there’s a good chance that if we lose him, we’re stuffed.’

Colin Statham set off at a trot, and Patterson dabbed his handkerchief at the damp patch on his trousers, which had begun to spread slowly downwards. If it hadn’t been for those damn Cupid poofters, this would never have happened. Not only that, but he’d have got to the van a couple of minutes earlier and would probably have a better idea of what the hell was going on. All he’d seen was the guy with the ponytail reeling backwards from the side of the camper and then the van lurching off and almost running him over. He was pretty sure the man behind the wheel was the same one he’d collared at the arena exit, but who the woman was, he hadn’t got a clue.

He raised his wrist to his mouth and spoke into the sleeve of his jacket, ‘Come in, Sneezy. Do you read me?’ Not for the first time, he wondered which idiot had had the bright idea of codenaming this job Operation Snow White.

His earpiece hissed momentarily, and he winced as he heard the words, ‘Sneezy here. Go ahead, Grumpy.’

Patterson thought he could hear a stifled snigger in the background. ‘There should be a white VW camper van passing your position any second now,’ he said. ‘Registration whiskey six three five papa juliet tango. Keep on its tail but do not intercept. I repeat, do
not
intercept. – And don’t bloody lose it. I want to know exactly where it goes.’

‘Will do, Grumpy. Van just passing us now.’

He was certain he heard a giggle this time. ‘Who’ve you got with you?’

There was a brief pause and then: ‘Sorry, sir. Can’t tell you that.’

‘What are you talking about, you can’t tell me?’

‘It’s just that… ‘ Sneezy was obviously trying to compose himself. ‘He’s
Bashful
, guv.’

The suppressed giggling suddenly erupted into an explosion of laughter so loud that Patterson snatched the earpiece from his ear to avoid being deafened.

‘Oh ha bloody ha. And now you’ve had your little joke, just remember this, Mr Sneezy. You two clowns lose that van and you’ll be sneezing out of your sodding arseholes. Got it?’

Through his earpiece, which he was now holding a couple of inches from the side of his head, he heard a car engine starting up and possibly the word “tosser”.

* * *

Despite his lean and athletic appearance, Colin Statham had a long history of avoiding anything which remotely resembled physical exercise, and so he was not the best equipped for a high speed chase on foot. Fortunately for him, however, his target on this occasion was going nowhere fast.

Must be completely trollied, he thought, as the man weaved this way and that, his arms flailing around in front of him as if he were negotiating his way in total darkness. His lack of forward progress meant that even Statham had little trouble gaining on him, and when he was within ten feet or so, he contemplated a headlong dive to bring the guy down in a spectacular looking rugby tackle. But he immediately decided against it when he noticed the bogginess of the ground. Instead, he drew the Glock 17 pistol from the holster inside his jacket and held it flat against his hip, pointing downwards so as not to arouse unnecessary attention. He grabbed hold of a flailing arm and spun the man round to face him. A pair of severely bloodshot eyes blinked back at him several times as they attempted to focus.